Wolf in Sheep's Clothing
by R. E. Lyngard
Summary: Rachelle Hawke, sister to the Hawke brothers, is put in the position to kill the Airwolf program, but through committee manipulation, she finds that may not be all that she is in charge of ending.
1. Rock and a Hard Place

**A/N:** Standard disclaimers on owners of characters and concepts. This story includes characters and ideas from Season 4. I am actually rewriting this story, which was the very first piece fanfiction I ever attempted. I was 16 at the time. Now, I'm more than twice that age, and so much has happened to me in my life and in the world, that I decided to make some major revisions to this fic. I also decided to bite the bullet and submit it to mostly as a way to motivate me to see this story rewrite through to the end.

This piece is my conceptualization of meshing Season 4 and the rest of Airwolf canon. I know that a lot of people disagree with Season 4 (some to the point of ignoring it completely) and if this is how you feel – then this is probably not the fiction for you. I have refrained from reading any Airwolf fiction in the past 4 or 5 years so as not to influence the dynamics of my characters. Once I've spun my story through completion, I plan on checking out some of the more recent writings.

I also have a few OC's, one being Rachelle Hawke, St. John and Stringfellow's sister, who supposedly died at the age of 2, in the same explosion that took the Hawke brother's parents' lives as well. One day I'll write a prequel explaining all of that; I have the plot just not the overall storyboard.

In my universe, Dominic did die in the explosion meant for String (see episode Black Jack – season 4), but String obviously did not. Caitlin and Archangel don't feature in this story, but they are a large part of the sequel that I am also am writing/re-writing – my Airwolf muse can be prolific at times. Oh, one more noteworthy item, St John's son is not part of my universe either. The timeline for my universe is set some time after Season 4, and ages of the original characters have been made younger than what would fit into present day canon.

I hope you enjoy my account of Airwolf. Constructive criticism and feedback is appreciated. That said, I don't have a BETA for this fandom, so if you're interested please p-mail me.

One final note, real life is coming into play – so between this fic and my other fandoms, updates may be sporadic at best.

**Wolf in Sheep's Clothing**

**Chapter One **_(T - mild language)_

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

Fast paced images blurred and then froze in front of exhausted, blue eyes. Once again the woman paused the grainy, video footage recovered from surveillance collected by a deep cover operative. Carefully, she started to leaf through a large pile of notes tabulating the same events with satellite intelligence imagery but stopped her rummaging instead to run her hands through long, henna colored hair, which was now a mass of unruly waves.

_Apparently, the Company is not going to lower the temperature in the conference room to a respectable level after all. Big surprise._ She sighed inwardly and carefully reached over her growing pile of dampened notes to flip a switch on the portable fan that she had remembered to bring from home some lifetime ago that morning.

She closed her tired eyes a moment and waited to receive some blessed relief from the little machine as it stirred the humid air. But, her temporary respite was cut short as a soft tapping sound came from the closed door of her commandeered room. Tugging her sticky blouse into place and sitting straighter in her chair, she swiveled around in time to catch Newman cautiously opening the door.

"Good afternoon, Rachelle. Have you found everything that you need?"

Although she tried to stop herself from reading into the clipped and precise tone of his voice, she was unsuccessful. _You mean have I found anything to hang my colleagues and family out to dry yet? _But, instead of voicing those thoughts, she replied as cheerfully as she could. "Yes, surveillance video, close caption circuit stills, satellite imagery, debriefing notes, eyewitness reports, probably too much. I could use an air conditioner though. I don't suppose that's what you have in those files your holding, huh?"

Surprisingly, Newman cracked a smile at her feeble attempt at humor. "No, I'm afraid not. But, I do have the files you requested from intelligence." He started to place them on the clutter she was using as a desk but could not find a suitable space.

Rachelle pushed her pile of notes aside for Newman and found the cup of coffee she had lost in the chaos some time that morning. Opening one of the newly arrived, thick files, she took a long sip and made a face. The now cold liquid tasted like rocket fuel and ignited in her stomach like an afterburner, a telling reminder that she had skipped lunch once again. Deciding that it was better to stop while she was still ahead, she set the drink down and started to absorb the new information.

Newman quietly slid into a chair and watched as she picked up a pen and started to write. The instrument was a mere blur as she transferred bits of information onto a worksheet she had developed earlier to better organize data and create an accurate timeline. Curious, he leaned forward for a better look at her small scrawl.

The movement caught Rachelle's eye, and she quickly glanced up. She had gotten so wrapped up in the new information, which she had thought she had a snowball's chance in hell in getting in the first place, that she had completely forgotten about Newman. "I'm sorry, Newman, was there something else you needed?"

Newman watched as Rachelle's eyes glanced down at the now coveted documents in front of her before darting back to look in his direction. "Actually, yes," he replied as he got to his feet. "The Oversight Committee would like to see the video footage when you've finished with it."

"I'm finish…" Rachelle's words stopped in mid-flow as her eyes focused on the close-up of a battered and bloody Major Michael Rivers still frozen in time on the screen. She hadn't realized that she had paused on his image. Reaching out a tentative hand to trace the contours of his face with her finger, she was shaken out of the trance by the mildly unpleasant shocks of static electricity emanating from the DVR/DVD's screen.

Startled, she blinked several times and was annoyed to find moisture burning under her eyelids. Angrily, she punched the eject button harder than necessary to remove the disk from the machine, and immediately the tortured image transformed into a blue screen. Finding a sense of calm by watching the screen, Rachelle managed to blank out her raging emotions. "I'm finished with it now," she said completing her earlier sentence.

Newman nodded and turned off the equipment. The quiet hum of the circuitry died leaving an obtrusive quiet in the room. "When you're done reviewing the other digital media from intelligence, I'll send someone up to take this out of your way."

Rachelle did not answer him. Turning to see if she were already involved in her work and had not heard him, he found her standing ramrod straight staring outside the only narrow bank of windows in the room. "Rachelle?"

Rachelle whirled around and looked at _The Company_ man. "This is bullshit, Newman, and you know it."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't," Rachelle cut him off and slapped her hands on the table separating them. "Don't play dumb. You and I both know this is a set up, and I am the one who is going to take the fall. If the Oversight Committee doesn't find what they want in my report, then I must be hiding something – either for the team or for myself."

"Do you want someone else assigned to this case?"

"Yes." She answered hastily, and just as quickly she retracted her statement. "No. I don't know. All I know is that this is more than a rock and a hard place."

"We've been over this,…"

"We can go over it until the cows come home, Newman. The outcome will still be the same."

"Do your job, Rachelle, nothing more."

_Easy for you to say. You don't have to bring your job home with you. _ "That is what I'm doing."

"Then I'd best get out of here and let you continue it."

"Yes, you'd best," she agreed tightly willing her closed fists to loosen.

Newman strode to the door and paused momentarily. For a moment, Rachelle thought the man might say something else. Instead, she watched him turn the doorknob and walk away.

Again, Rachelle picked through her notes trying to make the information make sense, willing it to not look like it did. _The wonderful world of spying, intrigue on paper, deception on video, truth – where? _She thought bitterly. Blood started pounding in a trumpet fashion in her head. _Their dead – and I'm the one leading them to slaughter._ Viciously, she wheeled the chair back and let it slam into the wall.

_Now, that's real professional._ She silently berated herself even more irritated by the fact that her emotions were ignoring the verbal punishment like an errant child ignores the worried protests of a mother. _Seems you can take the last five years of emotional containment and screw it. _

Unbidden her hand caressed the long white scar running down the length of her upper left arm. Pulling in a deep breath, she felt her whole body flip flop as she tried to cover her emotions when the door to the conference room opened suddenly without a courtesy knock. "Don't you people believe in knocking, or was that courtesy not covered in your training?" she snapped at the intruder.

Jason Locke stood in the doorway and attempted a smile. "And, a fine day to you to, Hawke."

Rachelle stopped her hand from moving to massage her temples and stared at the man. She had yet to determine how much of a team player he was. He seemed very ensconced in The Company, but Mike seemed to accept him even treat his as a friend. Her brief query to St. John and Stringfellow had yielded their tolerance of him as well, although String had been much more cautious in his assessment. Changing her tone, she favored him a better reply. "Can I help you with something?"

"Didn't know this conference room was occupied," the African American man replied an unreadable look in his eyes.

_Bullshit!_ she thought letting a heavy silence fill the void instead of an answer.

Rather than leave the room, Locke entered and closed the door behind him. "How is it going?"

Rachelle knew darn well that he wasn't asking her about her well being, but decided to take that tack with him anyway. "Just fine," she smiled albeit unconvincingly. "Thought I'd take the day and sit in the most climate-friendly conference room, catch up on work, maybe write a report or two..."

Putting his hands down on the table of files and graphs, Locke stopped her. "I'm well aware of what you are doing here."

"Then, you are even more aware that I cannot discuss it with you."

"You still hold a probationary security clearance based mainly on your past governmental work and secondarily based on my ongoing assessment. Don't play with me, girl," he warned.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Rachelle's voice held an edge of something dangerous.

"Perhaps."

Rachelle wanted to hit him, punch him, or do anything to wipe the smug look off the man's face but managed to keep herself contented by imagining it rather than acting upon it. "I'm doing my job, Locke. The Oversight Committee chose me, not you, so get used to it."

Jason nodded his head at her response. The Oversight Committee had chosen her. Though why hadn't made sense, and it still didn't. He was senior to her and had a higher security clearance. Sure, he had intimate knowledge of the events on which she was investigating which could impact his credibility, but, at least, he wasn't related to one of the team members in question nor sleeping with another. Rather than continuing with a conversation, which wouldn't get either of them anywhere, Locke decided to leave. "Do your job right, Hawke. The committee isn't the only one watching your performance on this."

Alone in the room, Rachelle lowered herself to the conference room chair and dropped her head in her hands. She was going to crucify them; there was no way around it. She could spin it in as much positive light as she wanted, and it wouldn't matter. The Airwolf Program was already dead. She had just been the one the Oversight Committee had decided to use as its fatal blow.

--

Rachelle paced the living room looking into the gloomy predawn light. She had finally gotten the nerve to return home last night and had waited in her car a half an hour after the last of the lights in the house had gone dark. For all her bravado, she wasn't sure how she would act when it came time to actually face her brothers or Mike.

What was she going to do? Was there a way to save the Airwolf program? The changing political climate had The Company searching for its place somewhere between the overall War on Terror and Homeland Security.

Airwolf was a natural antiterrorist weapon. Would the government cut off its nose to save its face? Obviously, the bigwigs had decided that the team needed to be reigned in. It wasn't exactly a positive to have a sect of vigilantes with loose ties to a governmental agency in control of a Mach One plus machine with an arsenal of firepower. And, it hadn't exactly inspired trust when said team had not prevented weapons of mass destruction from falling into the wrong hands. Eventually, the threat had been terminated but that outcome was not comforting to several of those in power who had seen the potential for the mission to go the other way.

There were two courses of action that the agency could potentially follow. Cut off discretionary funding and the direction of supplies to the Airwolf program. Lack of these resources would eventually crippled the project and lead to its demise. Another possibility would be to take the Airwolf team members into custody. Under the Patriot Act, they could be held indefinitely without the typical rights assigned to citizens. The hope would be that one of the team would buy his or her freedom with the price of Airwolf's location. The truth was that doing either of these would ensure that Airwolf stayed hidden for eternity.

The Company would be destroying one of its "not so secret anymore" advantages and the best threat against many of the scattered terrorist-cult groups at home and abroad. Then there was the ever-popular suggestion that someone infiltrates the team and passes all the information on to the agency. Been there done that not just once or twice, but at least three times of which Rachelle was aware. Each time, the person had either been found out, had turned rogue against the very agency that had hired him or her, or had been won over to the beliefs of the existing team.

A lone pair of headlights illuminated the quiet stretch of road in front of St. John's home casting oblong shadows in the room as it slowed and then finally passed the house. The house had belonged to her parents. She had even lived here the first two years of her life, but no memories had ever surfaced for her. Currently, St. John, Michael and she occupied the home although at any given moment, Stringfellow, Joanna Santini, or Ashleigh Francisco would slum it out on the couch or in the guest room.

Rachelle smiled when she thought about her redheaded friend and ex-partner. Ashleigh had been one of the only constants in her life. They had gone to Quantico together and then eventually had become partnered in the LA field office. Their primary goal was investigating white-collar crime but they had been extended into the underground-organized variety as well.

When Rachelle and her brothers had been reunited after more a quarter of a century passing, Rachelle had left the Bureau and had joined her family working for the more clandestine governmental agency. Ashleigh had stayed with the FBI as a senior field operative. Because of the nature of their professions, their respective fields rarely if ever coincided; however, that didn't stop Ashleigh from becoming embroiled in whatever the current issues were in Rachelle's extended family, although as an outsider – always the outsider. That had certainly strained their relationship, and at times like these, Rachelle would certainly have valued her longtime friend's blunt advice.

Rachelle leaned her head forward to the insulated mug nestled in her hands and inhaled the comforting scent of coffee that was still too hot to drink. Her late night had not led to a quick sleep. It had actually led to no sleep. Tossing and turning for hours, she had finally given up and headed down stairs to make what she guessed would be the first of many pots of java.

A pair of hands reached from behind and closed around Rachelle's neck. Without a thought, Rachelle reacted elbowing her attacker with a sharp jab into the ribs and turning to fling her hot beverage into a face.

"Whoa, hold it!" Mike yelled ducking her arm.

Rachelle pulled back quickly and sloshed hot coffee down her hand instead. Stifling a small grimace of pain from the burn of hot liquid, she put the mug down carefully and glared at Mike. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Let me see." Mike demanded looking at her hand ignoring her question.

"I'm fine," she snapped drying off the brown liquid with a napkin and inspecting the reddened skin.

Mike took the injured hand anyway to see for himself. He never understood why she had to have her coffee so bloody hot. Luckily, she was correct, she wasn't burned badly probably not more than a first-degree burn, if that. "We should get some water on that."

"I'm fine," Rachelle waved him off.

Knowing that talking Rachelle into anything she didn't want to do was pointless, Mike let go of her hand. "I'm sorry I scared you," he offered.

"You should be!"

"Trust me, I am," Mike seconded and slightly rubbed the spot on his chest where her elbow had impacted. He would bet that there would be a bruise there later. "I've never seen you so jumpy. Now turn around, and let me finish what I was trying to do in the first place."

Rachelle complied and felt the Mike's strong hands kneading into her back and neck. Mike's hands truly were a gift from God. After a few minutes of rubbing the tension out of her shoulders, he slid his hands down her arms and pulled her against him with his hands wrapped around her waist. "Missed you," he murmured into her hair.

"Me too," Rachelle agreed. She closed her eyes and snuggled back into his embrace, "by about two inches."

"Ha, ha, very funny. So, what's with you; why so tense?"

Immediately, Rachelle's thoughts turned to her current investigation, and she pulled out of his arms. "Work."

Mike regarded her defensive posture carefully. They had been dating for several months but intimate for only a few. He was still learning the nuances of her personality, still breaking down walls. One thing he did know, however, was how good Rachelle was at her job. She had been highly respected by her colleagues in the FBI. And, while she had been initially recruited by The Company, partially out of deference for the Hawke brothers and probably secretly to get information on Airwolf's whereabouts, she had more than proven herself capable as an agent in her own regard. The one thing he knew better than to do was to pry into her assignments. "Want me to help you forget about it?

With uncertainty in her eyes, Rachelle watched him approach. In the past, they had had many arguments about the nature of her current missions, especially those that had excluded him. She was still on guard for another fight when his lips descended upon her own.

Glass shattered as something large sailed through the picture window in the living room raining shards upon the embracing couple. The instant they heard the crash, Mike and Rachelle separated flinging themselves to the ground. A second object hurled through the window finished off what was left of the windowpane and impacted against Rachelle's forearm before landing on the rug next to her. It was several more seconds that passed before either Mike or Rachelle raised their heads and looked at one another.

"You okay?" Mike asked glancing back to the window or lack of one.

A sound of bare feet slapping on wood reached their ears before St John with gun drawn stormed into the room. "What the hell?" he yelled looking at the ruined window and debris littering the living room floor.

Rachelle cradled her right arm in her other hand and knelt down to inspect the object that had destroyed the picture window. Knowing better than to pick it up and damage any possible forensic evidence, she simply pointed at a large, smooth rock resting on the wood floor not far from another similar rock that had made it as far as the area rug.

"Damn kids," St. John growled looking at the mess of the formal living room. The three adolescent boys down the street had made it a habit of annoying the neighbors. A week ago, St. John had caught them practicing paintball targeting on a neighbor's car and garage. After speaking with their father and arranging for the cleanup, payment of damages, and additional community service off the police radar, he had thought that the mischief would stop. Apparently, it had only lent itself to making his house the next target.

Mike surveyed the damage and then walked to Rachelle's side. "You never answered my question."

"I'm fine," she answered waving him off for the second time in a matter of minutes. "Are you going to call this in?" she asked looking back at St. John.

"Yeah," St. John decided, "I've got a buddy in the sheriff's office, I'll see if he can come out and take statements and file a report. It probably won't go anywhere though since nobody got hurt."

"I wouldn't say that," Mike pre-empted finally getting a good look at the welting bruise starting to swell on Rachelle's arm. "Rae here got clocked by that last rock."

"Let me see," St. John demanded as his sister dutifully held out her wounded arm. While Rachelle was likely to fight Mike on matters of injury, she wouldn't even attempt to divert her oldest brother. She had learned quickly that those tactics only worked outside the Hawke surname.

"I'm fine, really," Rachelle protested stifling a gasp when St. John moved her arm to get a better view of it.

"Sure you are," St. John replied looking into her eyes. "Mike, take Rachelle into the kitchen and ice that before it gets any worse. I'm going to make that call. Wade will just love coming out at this time in the morning. I'm sure he'll be in the best of spirits when he goes to talk to the Maguire boys."


	2. Into the Lion's Den

**Chapter Two **_(T - mild language)_

**Into the Lion's Den**

As soon as Rachelle had badged through security to enter Company Headquarters, she had been flagged. Within seconds, a very annoyed guard had collected her service weapon and had handed her laptop and briefcase over to another thug of the law and order kind who had subjected the computer and case to tests that made post 9-11 airport security look like the girl scouts. While her belongings were being pawed through, she had endured a full body scan. It wasn't until she had been escorted to the bank of elevators leading to the sublevels of The Company elite that she had received the summons from Newman that the council was ready to hear her preliminary report. Apparently, Oversight Committee readiness had led to the expectation of her presence as soon as she arrived on the premises.

In the muted lumbering of the bulletproof, double reinforced steel elevator, Rachelle breathed deeply as she leaned back against the handrail and took respite in the brief ride to the security committee's conference room. A preliminary report was all she could give. The Oversight Committee had given her less than 48 hours to integrate the investigation into a coherent and mostly unbiased review. As an added bonus, they had requested, which she knew to read as required, that she pose a viable solution to the situation, now classified as over the critical stage by some bureau chief's estimation.

She was prepared, more than prepared actually. The only problem was that her findings were at best inconclusive. Of course, conclusive results wouldn't have matter either. The almighty budget review process had already made a decision. This was purely a very elaborate dog and pony show, the appearance of the democratic process in an oligarchically controlled government agency. She was simply the mechanism to justify it.

On her initial acceptance of the assignment, acceptance being synonymous with acquiescing to the powers that be on penalty of dismissal, she had asked Newman about the justification of taking on a project that was a foregone conclusion. When she had been given the specifics on the investigation targets, she had taken back the question and had demanded full disclosure.

There were protocols for internal investigations of operatives with whom one was associated. To ask an agent to investigate a family member breached those procedures on so many levels, it still made her head spin when she thought about it. She wasn't ignorant to the fact that her personnel profile highlighted her strengths and weaknesses, a fact that had certainly been exploited by the committee to garner her cooperation. While she exemplified many of the Hawke positive tendencies, she had also inherited some of the less stellar traits. It had been a foregone conclusion that she would accept the assignment even without the Oversight Committee Chair's insistence that she be given first right of refusal.

The soft tone of the elevator reaching the floor to the committee conference rooms shook her from her reverie. Sweeping a hand to push her hair behind her shoulders and gripping her briefcase in determination, Rachelle stepped into the hallway that led to the conference room. The wall lights broadcasted a false sunny façade making her feel as if she were in an upper level office and not several stories below ground. Blinking back a sudden feeling of claustrophobia, she shoved the door to the conference room aside and entered the small room.

The room was set up similarly to that of a typical governmental council meeting. Prominently at the front of the room, a large wooden desk curved the radius of a half-circle. Facing into the room, seven chairs were set around the crescent. Each sitting position held a flat screen computer monitor, recording microphone, and box with a top housing three small lights reminiscent to that of a horizontal traffic light. In front of the large wooden seating platform prominently displaying the Department of Defense, the parent agency currently in command of The Company, a much smaller table was stationed. This would be her desk, specifically situated through the subtle art of intimidation to give her an elevation disadvantage and to make a minority of her opinions and findings.

For all of the paranoid hoopla she had undergone through the welcome wagon at the front gate, the air of immediacy did not extend to the committee conference room. Other than herself, there were no other people present in the room. Fully aware of the hurry up and wait mentality of this committee, Rachelle detoured to a small refrigerator set near to the committee member's platform and pulled out a chilled water bottle. If she were going to go up against hell, she might as well be comfortable. Thinking about the situation again, she reached into the mini fridge and withdrew a second bottle. _Might as well be prepared for a long wait too,_ she thought to herself and began to arrange the small desk with the paraphernalia that she would need to present her case.

After rearranging the desk three times, Rachelle pushed back further into the padded chair attempting to find a comfortable position to wait out the committee members. As luck would have it she had just found said position when the doors to a back chamber behind the large cabinet platform opened, and five of the seven members comprising the Oversight Committee entered.

Although not required, Rachelle felt compelled to rise to her feet and to stand at attention until the five took their respective chairs. Once they were seated, she took her seat as well. The committee chair slid her reading glasses over her eyes and glanced at a sheet of paper that she had been handed by a non-member, presumably an aide.

While the woman skimmed the paper, Rachelle scrutinized the remaining members. Name placards were being placed in front of each member to identify him to her. Not that the information would help since all of the information displayed held the aliases of the members rather than any true identifying information. Rachelle stifled a snort of irritation as she read each name. The Company hubris was still very much alive. Apparently, the members comprising the Oversight Committee were also under the assumption that using the name of mythological gods gave them such power.

As befitting her identity, the chairwoman, Hera, presumably second only to Zeus and probably answering directly to him, put down her piece of paper and glanced at Rachelle. "Ms. Hawke, the committee has been briefed. Will you please present the entirety of your report?"

Rachelle opened the program on her computer and stood from her seat.

--

In St. John Hawke's kitchen, Joanna Santini finished stirring a large pot over the range. She had just added another handful of spices and white wine to the freshly diced tomatoes, onions, and garlic and set the heat to simmer when a hand reached over her shoulder to the large spoon resting on the side of the pot. Without warning, Jo slapped the hand away.

"Don't you dare," she scolded lightly as she turned to face a caught St. John.

"Hey, I won the bet, the least that you can do is let me sample the pot," St. John replied mildly as he rubbed his hand.

"Just because you won the softball playoff doesn't give you the ownership of the entire league." Jo reached for her glass of wine and regarded him. "Besides, my uncle would have had my head if you tasted his special sauce without the proper amount time for the flavors to blend."

"How about just a little peak then?"

Jo crossed her arms blocking him from the cook top completely and shook her head. "Okay, then I'll just have to settle for this." St. John leaned in close to her, his lips mere inches from hers, and inhaled sharply. "Mmm, smells great," he murmured, and tweaking her half ponytail, he stepped back with a look of triumph on his face.

Masking her irritation, Jo pushed him toward the refrigerator. "Go get something cold, and cheer up Mike," she ordered, indicating the slumped figure at the kitchen table. Taking another quick sip from her glass, she turned back to the sauce. The marinara really didn't need any attention, but she felt the need to compose herself. Their relationship, if that is what she chose to call it, was a perpetual two steps forward one step back and ambiguous during the best of times. Things had heated up when St. John thought she had died in a helicopter crash, and then with the introduction of Rachelle into his life, it had inexplicably cooled back to a platonic companionship. She wasn't sure where she stood, but she continued to play it safe and quiet. A clarification might take away everything, and she wasn't ready to risk that. Still their playful banter often left her confused and smarting from possibilities lost.

Fishing two cold bottles of beer from the refrigerator, St. John slid one to his fair-haired companion and sat down across from him. "Hey, Mikey, why so glum?"

Mike lifted his head from his hands and reached for the brew. Twisting the lid from the bottle, he took several hard swallows almost draining the beverage before looking at St. John. "Have you seen Jason?" he asked in a somber voice.

St. John glanced at Jo who had turned around at the uncharacteristic sounding grimness in Mike's voice before responding to him. "I've been in the hangar all day working on the Jet Ranger maintenance and then logged a few more hours on the newly built GlasAir. Why, did I miss a meeting?"

"No," Mike sighed and finished the bottle in front of him. Placing the bottle in the recycling bin, something Rachelle had insisted they start when she moved in, he went to the refrigerator and pulled another bottle. He inclined his head in offer to both St. John and Jo. St. John shook his head and indicated his still mostly full bottle in front of him, and Jo simply held her glass of wine up in refusal. Mike retook his seat flipping the chair around to straddle it and rested his arms on the chair back. "He told me about a Company inquiry," Mike continued picking up the thread of conversation. "He wasn't supposed to, but well, you know Jason."

St. John made a noncommittal grunt but refrained from commenting and distracting an obviously upset Mike. Jo, on the other hand, prompted him, "An inquiry into what?"

Mike ran the fingers of his unoccupied hand through his sandy locks before answering her. "Stavograd."

Jo almost choked on her wine at the mention of the small country that had suffered an almost meltdown in their power plant's reactor core. "That was what, almost two years ago?"

Mike nodded his head in the affirmative and took another long series of swallows from his bottle finishing the liquid.

St. John's eyes narrowed as he watched as his friend polished off two beers in a little less than five minutes and repeated his steps of placing the finished bottle in the appropriate receptacle and taking another beer out of the fridge only to return to his vacated seat. "I think you might want to slow down on those, buddy." St. John said taking the third beer from Mike and placing it further out of reach. "Stavograd isn't the only thing bothering you, is it?"

"No," Mike agreed, glaring at St. John's hand wrapped around his bottle. "They are also looking into Scotland."

Jo's barely audible gasp was the only sound in the room. Mike had almost lost his life when the Cypress Party had taken control of several US and Soviet nuclear missiles in an attempt to force the two countries to disarm. But there had already been several inquiries regarding this very dark spot in the Airwolf team's activities at a much closer time to the event in question. "Why?" she asked, finally finding her voice to ask the very question that was on all of their minds.

Mike shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as an answer. He had no idea why The Company would be looking to those two separate events that happened several years ago, but the last time they had held the formal inquest into Scotland he had gone through hell. He wasn't sure if he could take reliving those particular events all over again especially given the other piece of news. "That isn't the best part," Mike continued. "Guess who is leading the investigation."

"Locke?" St. John ventured.

"Nope. Your little sister," Mike announced and snagged his bottle from the now slack grip of his friend.

A slight rap on the kitchen door followed by the entrance of a pretty, redhead caught the group by surprise. Ashleigh Francisco stepped into the kitchen and smiled at the occupants that looked up at her like a group of deer caught in headlights. "Hi. What smells so good?"

Jo recovered first and turned her attention back to the now bubbling pot of marinara sauce. "Dinner," she answered stirring the sauce and turning the temperature further down. "I'm making shrimp marinara with my uncle Dom's secret recipe. You're welcome to join."

Ashleigh looked at the group realizing that she had probably just interrupted something important and tried to back track quickly. "Uh, no thanks, rain check though, definitely. Is String here yet?"

"He's just getting cleaned up," St. John volunteered. "I'll go get him." Making tracks quickly, he left the kitchen.

"Okay, then," Ashleigh said softly, watching St. John's retreating form and mused how often she saw that that particular profile from a Hawke sibling whenever she entered a room. Pulling out a chair from the table, Ashleigh sat across from an unusually serious Mike. "What's up?"

"The sky," Mike replied flatly and headed to the refrigerator. "Want one for your wait?" he asked, pulling out another couple of bottles. Even when Ashleigh replied in the negative, he brought two bottles to the table and plopped them down in front of his seat.

"You lose the bet too?" Ashleigh suggested, watching him pop both caps and taking a swig from each one.

"Something like that," Mike agreed and slipped back into silence.

"So, Jo," Ashleigh tried again. She was beginning to feel very uncomfortable in the little kitchenette. "I take it dinner was part of the bet. Was dessert too?"

Jo smiled and made her way to the refrigerator. She slid several containers to the right of a lower shelf and withdrew a large covered plate. "Yep," she answered removing the cover to reveal a cake with swirls of brown and cream.

"Is that your tiramisu?" Ashleigh asked in awe, looking at the delectable pastry.

Jo's smile was answer enough.

"Now, I really wish we were staying," Ashleigh muttered.

"Where are you going anyway?"

"I'm up for my fixed wing renewal. String offered to go up with me. Unfortunately, this is the only time either one of us could coordinate schedules."

As if on cue, Stringfellow Hawke entered the kitchen. "You ready?" he asked.

Ashleigh smiled at him and stood from her chair. "You look nice," she commented, looking over his slacks and button down shirt.

"The air field is a ways out, and at this time in the afternoon, we're sure to hit traffic on the way back. Thought we'd grab a bite rather than sit in rush hour."

"You're not flying out of Van Nuys?" Mike asked oblivious to the sharp glare Jo cast at him from the range.

"Burbank," Ashleigh answered quickly, seeing the subtle stiffening of String's posture. "My folks rent space there, and I'll be using their Twin Star for my recertification anyway." Glancing at the watch around her wrist, Ashleigh looked back at String. "You're right about the traffic; there was a wreck on the 405. We'd better take an alternate if we're going to make our scheduled flight time."

Without anymore prompting, String slid his leather bomber jacket from its resting place on one of the kitchen chairs and flung it over his shoulder as he made his way out of the house.

"Enjoy dinner," Ashleigh waved in departure. "I'll be looking for the leftovers of that tiramisu later," she winked and closed the door behind her.

Walking to the car, she opened the driver side only to see String already behind the wheel. "Am I going to ride on your lap?" String tilted his head, and saying nothing, he remained in the driver's seat.

"All right, all right," she grumbled, shutting the door and walked over the other side of the car to slide into the passenger seat of her own car. "You're awfully moody tonight, even for you. It is my car after all. The least you could do is ask." Ashleigh continued to bridge the one-sided conversation while rummaging through her purse. "Where the heck are my keys?"

A clanking of metal on metal caused Ashleigh to look up. String held the object of her search in his right hand. Quietly, Ashleigh pulled the shoulder restraint against her body and clicked it into the latch. "If you're going to drive, then drive," she glowered at him and settled stiffly against the leather of her seat.

Knowing he had successfully contributed to a quieter ride, String quirked a half smirk at Ashleigh and pulled the car out of the drive toward Burbank.

--

Rachelle stopped mid-sentence and slapped her hands in frustration against the table in front of her. "With all due respect, Hera, what the hell am I doing here?"

Rachelle's choice of words caused the chairwoman to look up at her sharply. "Ms. Hawke," she began but was interrupted before she could go any further.

"Don't," Rachelle hissed, running an irritated hand through her hair as she began pacing quickly back and forth behind her little station. "I've been up here working my tail off, and your committee has fallen into a void of disinterest. You've all been intently browsing, e-mailing, and instant messaging, and I've been up here for hours rattling along.

"You've missed lunch by a window of two hours in case that has escaped your notice as well, and I've yet to hear a single comment or challenge to my report. I know that I am thorough, but this is ridiculous. Can we just forego the rest of this and hear the decision that you have already made long before a single piece of information crossed my desk?"

"That is enough, Ms. Hawke," Hera stated coldly. "Your irrational jump to conclusions with regards to this matter is not only ludicrous but also highly unprofessional."

"Is it?" Rachelle challenged, dropping her thick sheaf of papers on the desk with an audible thump. "The events that you asked me to look into are old. They've been investigated and cleared, yet The Company continually insists that there is a larger cover-up. News flash, there isn't. Sanctions have already been imposed, additional conditions and bureaucratic red tape, yet the Airwolf Team has not only accomplished success on each and every mission since, without regard to personal losses, but they have also accommodated the interference. So, what is the point of this?"

"Are you quite done?" Hera thundered causing the entire committee to jump. This was the first sign of interest and attention they had given to the proceedings.

While the other members in the room gave their full attention to Hera, Rachelle steamrolled on as if the high-ranking officer had issued a blessing of continuance rather than a reprimand. "With the changing political climate, it doesn't take a seasoned analyst to realize that The Company profile and mission is being reevaluated. Obviously, the most logical course of action is placing all if not a majority of the current operations under the Department of Homeland Security. Am I right?"

Without waiting for an answer, Rachelle slid around the desk to walk around the small crescent enclosure. "So, an internal war persists as to where does Airwolf fit in? DHS would make an obvious choice for Airwolf's antiterrorist design and counter tactics, but the Department of Defense needs her for Black Ops missions afar.

"This isn't about Airwolf at all; is it? It is about who has final authority regarding missions assigned to the team. And, given the current state of affairs, the DOD doesn't have the best track record: allowing her creator to steal her and take her to Libya, using a vet to retrieve her only to keep her with demands of disclosure of MIA documents, eventual retrieval by Company agents who then parrot the original deal brokered by the then Firm and Hawke, engaging in operations of missions off the screen rather than specified by Company intel..."

"Agent Karrison," growled Hera as she stood from her chair. "Take your seat."

The use of Rachelle's past surname shook her from her diatribe, and by sheer motor memory, she found herself sitting as the committee chair had so ordered. _Mouth took over brain again, _Rachelle realized suddenly as her self-control slammed back into the forefront. She had been so incensed by the council's obvious dismissal of Airwolf in favor of politics that her temper had taken over.

"While I appreciate your loyalty to your team and siblings, I find your remarks completely off target. You were called here to evaluate past operations where the outcomes were less than prime."

"Loyalty?" Rachelle snorted.

"You are obviously too close to the matter…"

"To be what, objective? You knew that when you insisted that I take this position in this investigation, and while it is true that they are blood relations, that doesn't supercede my work ethic or my oath to my country." Rachelle argued at the implications the chair had stirred with her comments.

"That might be true, but as a test…"

"Test," Rachelle interrupted once more unable to hold her tongue, "A test of my ability to compartmentalize my life? A way to see how thorough I can be even in matters as personal as this?"

Hera was about to answer when the aid, who had slipped her the paper at the beginning of the meeting entered from the back door with additional summons. Nodding her head in acceptance of the disturbance, Hera glanced at the paper and folded it in half.

"You want a test, Ms. Hawke?" Hera resumed. "Tell us about Maxwell Pierreponte."


	3. Betrayal

_A/N: Long chapter alert – couldn't find a good place to end, so there is a cliffy. Thanks to all the reviewers for taking time to comment. I appreciate it. – Enjoy. RL_

**Chapter Three **_(T - mild language)_

**Betrayal**

Rachelle's heels clicked rapidly on the cement sidewalk as she left the main building of The Company compound. To a casual observer she seemed to be in a hurry, to anyone who knew her, she was running, running from a meeting that never should have happened but had.

"_Tell me about Maxwell Pierreponte,"_ the chairwoman's words still echoed in her head. She had held herself calm, had answered every question thoroughly, competently, automatically. Her professional training had kicked in, and she had managed a performance worthy of an Oscar. Now, as she turned down a crushed, granite path toward the duck pond, that façade was slowly crumbling.

Rachelle made it past the first small outcropping of trees and suddenly veered off the path toward another small clump of unruly bushes. Obscured from view by this foliage, she fell to her knees and vomited finally releasing the visceral reaction her body had had when the chair had first spoken a name Rachelle thought she would never hear again. After voiding the meager contents of her stomach, mostly water and coffee as it had been several hours since she had had anything substantial, she fell into dry heaves.

It took a good minute before she could breathe again. Swiping her wrist across her mouth, Rachelle pushed herself to her feet and half-stumbled, half-walked further down the path toward a small, iron bench situated to give an observer an excellent view of the grounds of The Company compound and the little pond that had apparently attracted water birds. She dropped to the cool, rough surface, and with hands still shaking, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed quickly. On the forth ring, a happy voice answered asking for her to leave a message. Rachelle hung up knowing that the lack of a message would be more forthcoming of a call back rather than any voice recording she could leave.

As Rachelle looked at the rings of water made by the ducks still swimming in the pond, a soft, evening breeze, still holding a hint of salt from the ocean, blew and gently swept the strands of her hair from her cheeks. There were two adults and several ducklings that swam just close enough to her to see if she would be throwing any tempting morsels to them. By her still form, they realized that this two-legged being was not going to be sharing leftover crusts, and they continued swimming to the other side of the pond.

Hot, unshed tears blurred her vision as Rachelle watched the little family foraging on the opposite shore for grass and bugs. She blinked quickly clearing her eyes. She knew that if she started, gave in, the tears wouldn't stop, and she'd be damned if she let a few feathers and a name break the barriers she had fought years to construct.

_Come on Ashleigh,_ Rachelle begged silently as she looked to her quiet phone. Her fingers itched as she traced nine digits to another well-known phone number, but she stopped herself from actually dialing. He knew the whole story, had been there from the beginning, but to call him with this would be pure selfishness. Closing the flip top of the phone to further prevent a weak moment, she focused on the reddening hues of a spectacular sunset stretching and fading to blues against the horizon.

It had all been a ruse. She had spent the last week of her life preparing reports, looking at intel, and trying to formulate some way to save Airwolf as it currently existed in The Company, but that hadn't been the point of the investigation at all. While she was involved in internal committee meetings, Locke and Newman had gone to DC to participate in the official hearings on the Airwolf Program. Even though Hera had promised that Rachelle's report had been part of the arsenal that Newman and Locke were using to justify Airwolf's continued survival, the assurance had left a bitter taste in her mouth, made even moreso by the true motivation of the Oversight Committee's agenda.

Rachelle buried her head in her hands and swallowed the sob that almost reached the surface. She would survive this; she had to. But, it would be so much easier if she could just talk to Ashleigh; find out if the agent knew anything and how much and when…

Thoughts whirled around her head as twilight, darkness overcoming light, slowly took place in the sky. The distant quacking of the ducks silenced as the fowls bedded down for the night. The wind that had offered a brief respite from the suffocating summer heat died away leaving Rachelle very much alone with memories that would never be distant enough to examine.

Threading her fingers through her hair, Rachelle stood and shook herself from a reverie that would be nothing more than debilitating. Glancing to the water, she jumped when she saw the image of a man standing behind her as if to push her. She spun, her hands poised to strike, but he flickered and blinked out of existence. _God,_ she took a deep breath and released it trying to disperse the adrenaline rush. If a mere Q and A session with a Company committee, that only knew half of the story – the official half, brought on hallucinations, what would the total truth do to her?

--

The waiter finished taking their drink orders and left Ashleigh and String to study the menu for their main meal. Ashleigh glanced at the menu one last time and closed it after making her quick selection. Ever since she had left the Hawke house she had been longing for Italian food. While she was quite sure the entrée wouldn't measure up, she would at least silence the pasta craving that Jo's had inspired.

String closed his own menu and look at Ashleigh. She had passed the recertification with no problems, and he had been impressed when she had handled the significant crosswind on the runway during landing. "How long did you say you've been flying," he asked.

"I got my license back when I was in college," she answered, taking a sip of the iced water that the waiter had brought as soon as they had been seated. "I let it lapse while I was in the Bureau back East. Couldn't find the time to keep up my hours. But, now that life has settled down a bit, I thought I'd update it."

"Been practicing?"

"You can tell, huh? I've got a friend who let me brush up before my final."

"Ever think of adding a rotor wing to it?"

Ashleigh waited for the waiter to set their drinks down and take their food order before she replied. "Why, are you looking for another pilot to handle the Lady?"

String's response was to simply quirk the corner of his mouth at her wryly and to lean back in his chair.

A brief tone from her purse prevented Ashleigh from continuing to bait him. "Looks like I missed a call," she apologized, rummaging through her bag to find the chirruping object before it got louder. Glancing at the screen, she recognized the number immediately, and with a repentant glance at String, dialed voice mail.

"That's odd," Ashleigh murmured after confirming there were no new voice messages. "Can you excuse me for a moment. Your sister called but didn't leave a message." At String's nod, she headed to the entrance of the restaurant to make her phone call.

"Hey, what's up?" Ashleigh asked when her friend picked up on the first ring.

"I need to talk to you."

Ashleigh heard the strain echoing in Rachelle's voice. "All right, you have my attention now."

"Not on the phone."

"Rae, I'm in Burbank. String and I just sat down to dinner. Where are you?"

"I'll meet you somewhere, anywhere. Ash, it is important."

Ashleigh looked back at her empty table and noticed that while both she and String appeared to be missing, their entrées had made it safe and sound. "All right, give me thirty, and String and I can both meet you at AWACs, the bar near the Bob Hope Airport, off of Sherman."

"I'll find it, but come alone," Rachelle insisted.

"What is this all about?" Ashleigh asked, not liking the urgency permeating Rachelle's voice.

"Maxwell Pierreponte."

"Maxwell Pierreponte," Ashleigh repeated back, her own tone hushed at the utterance of the name. _Oh God._ "I'll be at AWACs in less than thirty," she affirmed and hung up the phone as the line went dead on the other end. _Shit._

Ashleigh returned to her seat at the table at the same time her missing companion did. "I need to cut this short," she informed him as she pushed the pasta on her plate around with her fork. Suddenly, she wasn't hungry anymore.

"Because of Maxwell Pierreponte?" String guessed.

Ashleigh's fork clattered on her plate as she dropped the utensil. "Excuse me?"

"When our food arrived, I went looking for you. I overheard you talking to Rachelle. The name came up. You suddenly went pale and hung up. What's going on?" There was no contrition in his tone at eavesdropping on her conversation.

If Ashleigh had been less frazzled by her exchange with Rachelle, she would have been angry with Hawke, but right then all she felt was disconnected. "Not my place," she whispered, as images played through her head.

"Then whose place is it, Ash?" String growled low in his throat, not liking the run around she seemed to be giving him.

Rather than answering his question, Ashleigh flagged down the waiter. "Could you bring me a to go box and the bill?"

"I want an answer, Ashleigh," String demanded, watching the redhead hunt around in her purse and come up with a wallet.

"We all want a lot of things, String," Ashleigh retorted, taking the box from under the tab that the waiter had slid on the table as he brought food to another table nearby. She scooped the pasta into the container and reached for the bill only to find that String had taken possession of it.

Rather than fight him for it, she simply tossed several bills on the table to cover their meal and started to stand to leave. String grabbed her arm in such a way as to have her return to her seat. "You left too much," he hissed, sliding her money back to her. "And, in case you've forgotten, we rode together." Once again, String held up her keys.

Rubbing her wrist, Ashleigh glared at him. "Enjoy your meal. I'll pick you up by dessert." Moving quicker than String thought she could, she managed to snatch the keys to her car away from him.

She was halfway to the door before he closed the gap between them. "I'm going too."

Ashleigh ignored him while they were in the restaurant and even returned a parting goodnight pleasantry to the hostess managing the door. Once they made it to the parking lot, she wasn't nearly so cordial. "This is not up for discussion," she stated evenly and moved to open the car door only to find String between her and it.

"Who's discussing it?"

"Get out of my way, String."

Ashleigh's tone held a warning that String simply ignored. He was used to the temperament of a redhead and figured he could use that experience to his advantage. However, he was slightly surprised when she leveraged herself to physically move him from his spot. But, when he noticed a security officer making rounds through the lot, he realized that Ashleigh was working toward a physical confrontation to attract additional assistance in leaving without him. She pushed him again, and String turned and wrapped his arms around her in what appeared to be a loving embrace.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ashleigh growled, her voice starting to rise in volume as she struggled to free herself from his arms.

"This," String stated simply, pulling her into a rough, passionate kiss.

All thoughts left her when String's lips crushed against her own. . As Ashleigh reveled in the feel of him, taste of him, her fight drained, forgotten. She had had feelings for the lone wolf ever since she had met him almost two years ago, but then again Ashleigh had always been attracted to the strong, silent, dangerous types. However, when Stringfellow had turned out to be blood relations to her oldest and dearest friend, Ashleigh had quashed all thoughts of a romantic entanglement with the quiet, brooding man. But thoughts were easy to dismiss - chemistry, electricity, not so much.

As fast as it had begun, Ashleigh found herself out of breath staring at String. "What was that for?" she asked, still a little rattled from the kiss.

"Distraction," String replied evenly as though nothing had happened. "You were going to create a scene for that rent a cop, and I needed to get these away from you." String held up the prize of car keys once again.

Ashleigh lunged for the keys but only managed to catch Strings arm. "Give me my keys," she ordered and not getting anywhere with threats this evening added a half-hearted, "please."

"Not until you tell me what is going on."

"I've already told you, that it is not my place. You want answers; talk to your sister."

"Fine, then I'll go with you and ask her myself." String agreed and opened the driver's side door once again taking ownership of Ashleigh's vehicle.

Ashleigh brought her hands to her head and ran her fingers through her hair in frustration. "You don't know where we are even going," she argued.

"You do," he countered.

Ashleigh made no move toward the other side of the car. "Dammit, she wants to meet with me alone. Alone, String. It is a concept I know you're familiar with, so let me go by myself." She purposefully focused on his clenched jaw as she spoke knowing if she looked into his eyes she would see the emotions her words were meant to inspire, and the depths of those blues would sway her more than any verbal argument could.

String sat silently in the driver's seat as Ashleigh's words echoed over him. With great restraint, he reigned in the emotions that spun from the truth. An image of Caitlin O'Shaughnessy saying almost verbatim what Ashleigh had said came into focus. Without another word, he slid across the gearshift and into the passenger seat. "I'm going with you," he repeated quietly, his tone brooking no further argument. They were the words that he wished that he had said to another redhead a long time ago.

--

Blinking in the darkness of the interior of AWACs, Rachelle made her way to an empty barstool close to the door of the establishment where Ashleigh had said she would meet her. As soon as she took her seat, a good-looking bartender dressed in a close imitation of Air Force blues asked her for her order. Deciding that something strong might not be such a bad idea, she requested a Blanton's bourbon, neat, and placed a bill on the bar to cover the drink and still leave a sizable tip. Ignoring the nod of understanding the bartender gave her as he took her money and started to pour her drink, Rachelle turned in her chair to take in the environment of the pseudo-club/bar.

Various scenes of an E-3 interior were displayed in mural fashion on each wall, from targeting radar graphics to cockpit photos of terrain and sky. Although fairly clean, the place had seen better times. The murals were completely intact but had turned yellowish from years of exposure to cigarette smoke that even though now banned in bars still seemed to linger in the air in defiance of the California ordinances. The wood on top of the bar was riddled with glass scars and gouges from who knows what. Odd forms of light spilled out from the fixtures made from what appeared to be instrument housings and in some cases the skins of missiles.

Rachelle took a sip from the glass that the bartender had placed in front of her and swiveled to look in the other direction at the platform where tonight's live band was preparing. The stage was constructed from half of a cockpit of an E-3, the top peeled open and innards removed, leaving only the nose intact. The wings, presumably from the same AWAC, additionally reinforced to handle longer intervals of human weight than it would have ever experienced during an actual tour, were now connected directly to the cockpit and spread forth on each side to create the left and right portions of the stage.

Rachelle lowered her head in exasperation as the band began their first set with songs from the popular 80's movie, Top Gun. _So much for originality, _she thought turning back to the bar and doing her best to ignore the music now blaring from the stage.

"Buy you a drink?" a man wearing a faux-leather, flight jacket asked her as he took the vacant bar seat next to her.

Rachelle glanced at him and back to her still mostly full glass. "I'm taken care of," she answered, swearing to herself that she saw the same situation in the movie the band's music was now emulating.

"All right, I'll join you; what's that you got there?"

"Bourbon," Rachelle answered tightly, using a voice she hoped would dissuade his apparent interest in striking up a conversation with her.

"Gotcha," he smiled. "Hey barkeep, a bourbon."

The bartender looked up in annoyance from his conversation with a leggy blonde. He then glanced at Rachelle who rolled her eyes at the intruder and shrugged almost imperceptibly. Within a few minutes, a honey hued beverage appeared in front of the man hitting on Rachelle.

"Name's Bradley," he smiled a toothy grin of bleached, white teeth. "But, my friends call me Brad," he continued conversationally, as he settled his tab, shorting the tip noticeably.

"You don't say, Bradley" Rachelle murmured, glancing to the opaque glass door leading into the bar.

Either by choice or ignorance, Brad didn't notice Rachelle's lack of interest or use of his full name. "Seems you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don't know yours, unless you prefer to be called Gorgeous."

Rachelle's bland expression dimmed in agony at the horrible line. _Do people really do this?_ "Look Bradley, I'm really not in the mood…"

"Ah, tough day at the office," Brad continued, gliding past Rachelle's attempt at ending the conversation. "I can relate. I know," he snapped his fingers, "let's toast to it being Friday." Lifting his beverage, he clinked his glass with the one in her hand. "Cheers," he smiled and took a large swallow.

As soon as the liquid made contact with his throat, he started coughing and sputtering. "What the hell is that?" he gasped, still trying to cool the burn from the liquid as it continued its decent through his digestive system.

Rachelle picked up his glass and sniffed it. She swirled the liquid around the glass to get the full aroma. Finally, looking at Bradley, she took a slight sip. "That," she replied, "is bourbon."

"You drink that stuff," he choked, still feeling the effects of the liquid.

"No," Rachelle replied and slid her chaser of water to him. "I drink, Blanton's. You apparently drink the cheap stuff."

The band's music began the notes of a song that Rachelle immediately recognized as The Righteous Brothers, You've Lost That Loving Feeling, and seeing a glimmer of an idea brighten in Bradley's eyes, Rachelle decided now was the best time to shut down the guy. "Bradley, you're crashing and burning here," she explained. "And, so help me, if you launch into a rendition of this song with your friends over there," she pointed in the general direction of a group of five guys watching their interplay. "I will throw what is left of your drink in your face. You think that stuff burns on the inside? Wait until you get it in your eyes."

The gleam in Brad's eyes dimmed, and seeing that he was almost ready to give up, she continued, "Remember the saying, any landing that you can walk away from? Walk away, now." Finally, taking her hint, Brad looked down the bar and found another woman who looked like she might be receptive.

_God, I hope he fixes his radar soon,_ Rachelle thought as she watched him make his way to an attractive blonde to start all over again. _Her boyfriend isn't going to like that._ Turning away from another potential scene, Rachelle looked at the bartender who was cleaning up Brad's drink. "Thanks."

"You more than paid for it," he flashed a quick smile in her direction and headed back to his conversation with the blonde.

The door to the club opened, and Rachelle immediately recognized the profile of Ashleigh Francisco. _Finally._ Rachelle was about to flag her when she recognized the other shadow next to her friend as that of her brother._ Dammit._ Rachelle finished her drink in two swallows. _Not the best way to finish premium bourbon,_ she acknowledged. Taking courage in the slight burn of the liquor, she left her seat and headed to the twosome.

"Ashleigh, String," she greeted them.

"Rae," Ashleigh's acknowledgement was tinged with apology. "Sorry, we're late. I couldn't find a decent parking spot."

"Yeah," Rachelle agreed, looking pointedly at her brother. "String, why don't you get Ashleigh a beer or something."

Although he knew he was being sidelined, String complied with a nod. "You want anything?"

"Just a glass of water."

As soon as her brother was out of earshot and heading to the bar, Rachelle grabbed her friend's wrist and pulled her close. "What is he doing here?" she gritted through clenched teeth.

"I couldn't get rid of him. We rode together to Burbank. What was I supposed to do, dump him at the restaurant?" Ashleigh replied in the same hissing tone as Rachelle.

"Yes, that would have been preferable to this," Rachelle continued, sweeping her hand around her to the ambience of the club. "Why in heavens name did you choose here to begin with?"

"Do you like it? I found it awhile back with some girls from the office. They have a wicked ladies night with karaoke."

Rachelle shook her head in dismissal and dragged Ashleigh to a small alcove of empty tables as far away from the stage as possible. "I really don't care about that now. We need to talk."

Ashleigh's eyes lost their shine of reminiscence. "What do you want to know?"

"Well for starters, how about the fact that you didn't and don't seem surprised by my even mentioning him."

Ashleigh looked down and drew a breath holding it for a second. When she exhaled, she finally met her friend's eyes. "He's in the Witness Protection Program."

"What!" Even in their relative seclusion, Rachelle's shout was enough to turn a few heads in their direction. Lowering her voice, Rachelle continued, "You told me that he got the needle."

"I thought that he had," Ashleigh defended herself against the accusation in Rachelle's voice. "I testified at the hearing. I testified for me and for you since you couldn't."

"We don't need to go into specifics here," Rachelle growled, forcing the memories into an analytical frame of reference rather than a dramatic representation of the past events of her life. "When did you find out?"

"About four months after the trial," Ashleigh admitted.

"And you didn't think to tell me!" Rachelle's anger was palpable. "Of everyone, I think I had a right to know."

"I couldn't. I swore an oath…"

"Screw your oath," Rachelle yelled. "I should have been told."

"You left the Bureau," Ashleigh argued, still trying to reconcile the action of betraying her friend with honoring her duty. "I didn't know where you were for almost eighteen months. Besides, what would you have done if you knew?"

Rachelle could feel the weight of her concealed Glock in her shoulder bag. "I'd have killed him," she answered, truthfully.

"And what would that have gotten you," Ashleigh countered.

"Justice," Rachelle spat and went silent as String approached them.

"Everything all right here?' he asked, placing the beverages on the table. He could almost see the waves of tension radiating from the two friends.

"Peachy," Rachelle snapped and took a swallow of her water, wishing she had asked for another bourbon or at least a beer to numb her feelings on the subject matter. She glanced at her watch and stood. "I'm heading home."

"I'll hitch a ride," String stated, standing to go with his sister and leaving his beer untouched sans the swallow he had taken on his way to their table.

"You don't have to do that," Rachelle hedged, still moving to leave. "Stay, enjoy your nightcap and the band."

"I've got an early flight," String excused himself, staying in line with Rachelle as she edged out of the bar.

"I'll see you later," Ashleigh called, not moving from her chair. After her run-in with Rachelle, she figured she had earned her beer. Besides, there was no better way to wallow in the decisions of the past than with a brew and 80's soundtrack music.

--

Mike took another sudsy plate from St. John's hand and dunked it into the clear water on his side of the sink. He dried it on his dishtowel and repeated the process of taking the next dish from his partner in chores.

After eating Jo's payment of the lost bet, St. John had volunteered Mike and himself to clean the kitchen. Mike gathered that it had been under duress since the volunteering had involved a blatant nudge on Jo's part and a not-so-subtle suggestion regarding the task in need of completion. It was obvious from the get go that she expected some male-bonding moment to take place.

He couldn't blame her, since he had all but ruined her meal not only by his gloomy mood and news bomb but also by his excessive drinking. On his sixth beer, he had finally deadened his reaction to the fact that Rachelle would be responsible for reopening healed wounds of the past and rattling skeletons that he had thought were long dead and buried. It was about that time that Jo had switched him to iced tea, and not the Long Island variety. Of course his comment about String and redheads might have aided her in the transition.

Finished wiping down the countertops, Mike folded his dishcloth over the apron front sink, picked up his glass of tea, and walked out to sit on one of the benches on the front porch. A few minutes later, the front door creaked open, and St. John joined him.

"It might help to talk about it," St. John suggested, looking out at the front yard and listening to the cicadas strumming their evening sonata.

Mike closed his eyes momentarily weighing St. John's counsel. "Do you remember Lynn?"

St. John leaned back against his chair and looked at Mike. Offering a slight apologetic smile, he answered. "Sorry, Mike, but not ringing any bells."

Mike shook his head and laughed hollowly. "I know, there have been so many of them. I was kind of a revolving door. Lynn turned out to be a rogue agent trying to get a hold of Airwolf," he explained.

Again, St. John shook his head.

"Aw, c'mon there haven't been that many females used as lures for Airwolf; have there?"

"Do you want me to count?" St. John suggested, preparing to enumerate ones of which he knew through String or had first hand knowledge of himself.

"No, that's quite all right. It doesn't really lend anything to where I was going anyway."

"Oh, so there is a point to this," St. John quipped, in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Lynn was Company. But, still she betrayed me, us," Mike admitted.

"And, you feel that Rachelle is doing the same thing?"

"Yes, no. I don't know. I know she's your little sister, the blood test and DNA prove that, but do you feel like you really know her?"

"I know her as well as I can for two years passing among thirty some odd. Relationships take time."

"I know that," Mike waved in dismissal. "But relationships take more than time. They take openness, sharing, a willingness to trust."

"And, you don't think you have that?" St. John guessed.

"It's too early to tell, but Rachelle can be so secretive. She's locked so many things up tight; I'm not sure I'll ever be on the inside. What kind of relationship is that?"

St. John shook his head in reply and looked up at the headlights that swept the front porch as a car pulled into the drive. "I don't think that this is a conversation you and I should be having. Why don't you try again, with her," St. John indicated the shadowy figure exiting the parked automobile. Picking up his glass, St. John retired into the house.

--

Mike offered a nod to String as he went into the house, and watched as Rachelle took the two steps to the porch. "Well, I see the prodigal sister has returned," Mike muttered.

"Not tonight, Mike," Rachelle warned.

Mike didn't miss the edge to Rachelle's reply nor did he miss the exhaustion in her stance, but despite St. John's suggestion of having a true heart-to-heart with her, Mike couldn't stop the anger that swelled upon just seeing her. "Hard day at the office?"

Rachelle looked up sharply at Mike's choice of words. As soon as her eyes met his, she knew that he knew. "Who told you?" she asked in defeat, sliding into the glider that St. John had occupied.

"It should have been you," Mike's answer held a mixture of hurt and anger.

"I was under orders not to say anything." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. _God, I'm no better than Ashleigh, _she thought with bitterness.

"Since when has _that_ stopped you?"

"It doesn't matter," Rachelle argued, trying her best to ignore Mike's more than valid attack.

"Why?"

"The Oversight Committee wasn't interested in a word I said. They already made up their minds. My meeting was just a test of loyalty."

"Congratulations," Mike spat, "You passed."

"I'm not so sure," Rachelle replied.

"Could have fooled me. You managed to keep the lid on the investigation from your brothers, Jo, and myself."

Mike's omission of a name was a telling indicator to Rachelle. "Locke told you," she realized. Mike's silence was enough of an answer. "Did he also tell you that he and Newman are in Washington doing the same thing that I was, just with the true bigwigs that make the final decision?"

"No," Mike admitted, feeling a certain sense of betrayal at that omitted piece of information. "But, it is Jason's job to handle The Company side of things."

"So, it's okay for Locke to do his job but not me?" Rachelle's hands balled up in frustration. This was the same argument that they had been having ever since she had joined The Company on the security side of things. "You know, it isn't easy breaking into this little clique of yours, even by blood. Not all of us can fly. Not all of us like to fly."

"You know," Mike growled, tired of the repetition of the fight as well. "If you'd try and open up a bit, be honest. It might not be such a trial getting to know us, become part of us."

"Which us are you talking about?" Rachelle countered. "Because from where I stand, there are secrets on both sides."

"You dug them up; you tell me."

"What exactly is this all about," Rachelle's anger evaporated, leaving her too tired to continue the verbal exchange.

Mike sunk back into his chair and looked hard at Rachelle. "You investigated some pretty ugly spots in our history. There were things that happened that I'm not proud of and other things that cost me dearly. Doesn't seem fair for you to find those things out that way. I couldn't defend myself or explain my actions. In testimony, there are just words, but I am more than that."

"I know that," Rachelle said, moving from her chair and kneeling in front of him. "We all have skeletons in our closets, things that we wish would never come to light." Her words made her shutter as she thought about how some of her own skeletons were about to be revealed.

Mike stared into Rachelle's deep blue eyes and saw flickers of fear and raw pain before she closed her eyes and pulled to standing. "Why didn't you ask me?"

Rachelle shook her head in confusion for a moment forgetting what they were talking about. "Emotions, even if they are part of the truth, do not do you any good with a governmental body. Hard facts that have explanations, justifications, are all they want. You fly by the seat of your pants; you fly with emotion. People who have never been in the field or know what a life and death situation really is judge your actions in a cold sterile room. They hold the purse strings; you play by their rules."

Mike watched Rachelle stare at the night sky, her hands wrapped around her upper arms sliding up and down slightly as if to ward off a chill. He stood and walked to her but stopped short of touching her. "Where do you stand?"

"In the middle on the outside," she whispered.

A squeal of tires shattered the night, silencing the insects and ending the moment. A dark car peeled down the road with no headlights illuminating its path. As the vehicle screeched down the pavement, an audible cracking accompanied it. Mike recognized the sound at the time Rachelle did, but he acted more quickly.

With Mike's arms wrapped around her, Rachelle was pushed off her feet. A blinding pain glanced across her skull as she impacted with the front lawn.


	4. Striking Distance

_A/N: Um, Happy New Year? It is still the first half of 2008; isn't it? Seriously, thank you for your patience with this story. I had placed it on temporary hiatus while I finished a few other fandom fiction demands. Now that those obligations are out of the way and real life is settling back into some kind of pattern, I can devote the time to getting this story out of my head and into the public eye. So, without further ado…_

**Chapter Four **_(T - mild language)_

**Striking Distance**

String entered the darkened kitchen to the Hawke family home and stood quietly in the room. He was facing an uncharacteristic indecision as how to handle the latest turn of events.

As if controlled by a mind of its own or simply a way to fill the void of making a decision, his arm reached for and opened the refrigerator door. His eyes fell on the cut tiramisu cake that was featured prominently in front. Even though he hadn't had more than a bite of his meal with Ashleigh, his stomach turned at the sight of the Italian dessert. He closed the door with more force than necessary.

_Trouble._ That one word had been flitting through his mind throughout the silent hour car ride back to St. John's. Actually, if he were to evaluate it, that word had been running around his head ever since making the acquaintance of one Ashleigh Francisco. String's fingers curled through his hair in frustration, and he slid into a kitchen chair more tired than he should be.

At times like these, he regretted leaving the hermit lifestyle he had shared with Tet as his only companion. If he had had a choice, he might still be drifting off into the sunsets of Eagle Lake, cello playing to the muses and to the pair of eagles claiming the lake as their own, but the circumstances of his life had never allowed for tranquility. His retirement had ended with the resurrection of his sister.

During String's three-year absence from society, St. John had taken up the mantel as Airwolf's heir. The irony that it was his _older_ brother who became his successor had not escaped String, but his injuries had been so severe that he could never have retained the title. And, he had completed his obligation. St. John, on the other hand, had his own agenda to complete.

The time away had been a blessing. It had given String's body time to heal. He could walk without the assistance of a cane although when he was tired there was a pronounced limp. His range of motion on his left arm held at a steady ninety percent. He was never supposed to be mobile, and he was only expected to regain limited control over his arm, but the doctors knew very little about the man who was Hawke.

As for his psyche, well, he had given up long ago looking for a chance to settle his inner demons. His dreams used to center around St. John and later Gabrielle, but ever since Dom had been murdered, his old mentor had become the one to haunt his nights. And if not Dom, then Caitlin would hold court.

Bringing his attention to the present, String sighed softly and pulled out his cell phone from the front pocket of his Dockers. He didn't even look at the buttons as he rapidly punched a number entrenched in memory. A voice answered on the second ring.

"I need some information," String growled into the phone, needing no pleasantries to preempt the business at hand.

He was quiet as he listened to the reply; a sarcastic smile lit his face. "Yes, I _do_ know what time it is, and I'm good for it. I need everything you've got on a man named Maxwell Pierreponte. Dig deep, at least ten years, maybe further back and find out his connections to Ashleigh Francisco and Rachel Karrison, both with the FBI, Los Angeles Field Office, White Collar."

String jabbed the end button, terminating the connection. Glancing at the screen, he thumbed the controls to enter his phone records and carefully set about destroying any traces of the call he had just made, overwriting with bogus information and deleting that information as well.

The plan of action didn't make him feel any better. He knew he should probably bite the bullet and simply ask his sister, but there was a blurry block of evasiveness on Rachelle's part any time interest shifted to her life prior to being reunited with her family. He didn't think an inquiry from him would come close to penetrating the cloak and dagger mythos that seemed to surround her, and without her assistance, there was little probability that he could help with whatever was brewing. Given her and Ashleigh's, for that matter, reactions to the mere mention of the man's name, String was sure that this storm was one of deadly magnitude.

Knowing that sitting in the kitchen would not aid in the prediction of future events, String got up from his chair and returned to the refrigerator. While the tiramisu still caused his stomach to clench involuntarily, the leftover pasta set in individual covered dishes, presumably for future lunches, did not have such an effect. String warmed a small dish in the microwave and twisted a top off a bottle of beer. Collecting his spoils, he headed into the den where a baseball game was playing on the television.

Jo glanced up as she heard footsteps on the wood floor. Seeing String with food in hand caused a smile to play across her face. "Hungry again?"

String grunted noncommittally and settled into a recliner positioned for optimum television viewing. "What's the score?"

"Two to Four, Dodgers. Kent just hit a homer and ran in Young. Two out; bottom of the seventh," St. John summed up the current game. "We had a bad time in the third. Botched a double play and let the second run score. The Diamondbacks tied up the game, but it looks like things are turning around." String's second grunt caused St. John to give his brother his full attention.

Jo watched the silent interaction between the two siblings. A long time ago, she would have been part of that nonverbal communication. She and the Hawke brothers had once been the three musketeers, but the march of time had ostracized her from that inner sanctum. Still, even with all of the time that had passed, St. John and String still had the uncanny ability to hold conversations with their eyes.

Jo was just about to barge into their exchange, when a roar of an engine and what sounded like multiple gunfire shots pierced the moment. The glass from the front window cracked and shredded into shards as projectiles pummeled the front of the house. Jo dove for cover and shielded her head with her hands to offer some protection from the flying glass.

Then, as soon as it had started, the explosions stopped. Only the sound of a vehicle screeching away from the house and a crowd cheering wildly on television broke the now deafening quiet.

St. John lifted his head cautiously and looked for Jo who was curled tightly into a ball on the floor a few feet away. His fingers gently stroked her shoulder, and his relief was immediate when she uncoiled to look at him. "You okay?"

"I think so," Jo replied, carefully scrambling out from the shelter of the loveseat. "What about you?"

"Fine," answered St. John, looking around at the mess of the den. He caught sight of String pushing his way clear of the overturned recliner. The entire den was littered with debris. First the formal living room and now this, somebody was going to catch hell.

"Shit," String exclaimed, rubbing his left arm noticeably.

When St. John's eyes met String's, he knew that his brother's comment was not in regard to injury.

"Mike and Rae were on the front porch." In less than three strides, String cleared the den wreckage and headed to the front door. St. John and Jo were right behind him.

--

As soon as Mike's shoulder hit the lawn, he rolled across Rachelle to use his body as a shield. Cocooning himself around Rachelle, he balanced on his forearms to keep his full weight from crushing her. Shots grazed the house siding near the exposed foundation, but the angle to the two forms huddled low on the grass was an impossible target to make within the confines of the vehicle. A squeal of tires on warm pavement shattered the odd quiet that occurs as gunfire ceases, and the vehicle and occupants that had shot at them tore off toward the highway.

In the wake of the car's departure, Mike rolled away from Rachelle and crouched down low to run into the street. He was only able to make out the faint red of taillights as the car slowed for a violent left turn onto the street operating perpendicular to the one on which St. John's house faced. His best guess was the car was black or dark blue, possibly green, and that it was more likely an SUV given the height of the hood to the bumper. He had no clue as to the license plate since the lights that illuminate the plate were not working.

With shoulders slumped in dejected frustration, Mike turned to survey the damage inflicted onto St. John's house, but it was what he didn't see that sparked his heart back into an adrenaline-spiked frenzy. The unmoving form of Rachelle remained in the same position on the lawn as when they had first swan dived to the ground.

Mike sprinted the short distance to Rachelle and crashed to his knees beside her. "Rae? Rae, honey," Mike murmured, and ignoring the vise clenching his gut from her unresponsive reply, he gently rolled her from her prone position to her back. Shakily, his hands ran down her body in search of wounds. His breath hitched in relief as they came away free of moisture.

Mike swiped Rachelle's hair away from her face, and his relief was immediately replaced by panic as his fingers came away with moisture that was the wrong color and too sticky to be mistaken for the dew saturating the cooling grass. "Oh, God," Mike whispered, and his hand immediately went to the pulse point on Rachelle's throat. As his fingers pushed against her warm skin, he was rewarded with a steady thrumming beat and a soft moan.

Rachelle's blue eyes fluttered opened to find Mike's terrified gaze probing hers. "Ow," she groaned again and attempted to put a hand to her throbbing head.

Mike's hand caught Rachelle's before it made its way to her temple. "Easy," he warned, trapping her hand in a gentle but firm grasp. "Lie still."

Rachelle's eyes clouded with confusion. "What happened?"

"We were shot at. I think you got caught in the crossfire." A frown of concentration lit Rachelle's features as she closed her eyes. In a move barely suppressing desperation, Mike stroked her cheek. "Stay with me, Rae. Open those baby blues."

Rachelle complied opening her eyes and returned a gentle squeeze of reassurance to Mike's hand that was still holding hers. A commotion of three people flying onto the front porch broke the spell.

"Mike! Rachelle!" St. John yelled and leapt the porch steps to land near the two figures on the lawn. He pulled up short when he saw his sister's face streaked with blood still flowing amply from some area on her forehead. "Shit," St. John echoed his brother's earlier sentiment and turned to Jo, who had elected to stay behind on the porch with String. "Call for an ambulance."

"No," Rachelle protested, and against Mike's previous warning, she pushed herself to sitting. The change in position caused her head wound to bleed even more profusely.

"You've been shot," Mike growled and tried to persuade her lie back down. He hadn't liked the gray cast that had taken over her pale complexion.

Rachelle shook her head at Mike's ministrations and closed her eyes for a moment. She was both trying to stifle the blinding pain that her sudden change altitude had initiated as well as to remember exactly what had transpired. "No, I wasn't."

"Rachelle," Mike's tone of voice was a warning, laced with heavy concern.

"I've been shot before, Mike," Rachelle argued, opening her eyes to glare at him. "I know what it feels like. No, I think I hit my head on something when you threw me off the porch." She threaded her fingers through the blades of grass until she came in contact with the raised concrete ring protecting one of the lawn irrigation sprinklers from being damaged by a lawnmower. "I hit the only hard thing in this whole area," she complained and moved her hand so that her overly concerned brother and Mike could see the object nestled in the lawn.

"It doesn't matter how you were injured," Mike continued, a mixed feeling of relief for her not being shot and guilt at throwing her into the sprinkler in his haste to keep them from being targets coursed through his system. "You have a nasty cut on your forehead, and you lost consciousness."

String moved to his sister's side and handed her a clean towel that Jo had brought from the kitchen when she had gone to retrieve the phone. "Head wounds are notorious for bleeding," he said quietly and gave Rachelle a meaningful stare when she inhaled sharply as he applied pressure to the laceration. "At the very least, you may need stitches, and we should make sure you don't have a concussion."

"No," Rachelle objected, taking ownership of the towel. "No doctors. No hospital. That is final!"

Rachelle turned her glare on Jo who had a look of indecision on her face as she glanced from Rachelle to Mike to the Hawke brothers. "I'll refuse treatment, and I'll refuse transport, so don't waste their time."

Jo looked at St. John and raised one eyebrow in question.

St. John shook his head almost imperceptibly in reply. He wasn't happy about Rachelle's decision, but he knew he couldn't force her. As long as she was conscious, she had the right to decline medical intervention. "Jo, call Locke's assistant and see if you can get somebody from the Company out here. I can blame one act of home vandalism on the Maguires. Two is too much of a coincidence for my taste."

"You think this is related?" Mike asked, still casting furtive glances at Rachelle to assess her condition.

"Wade said when he talked to the Maguires that they had an alibi worth checking out although it sounded shaky. This," St. John pointed to the damage inflicted by the recent gunfire, "is definitely not paintball gun related. That ammo was real and given the spread in the brief interval of time, I'd be willing to be it was an MP5 or similar model. The Maguires wouldn't have a clue as to how to get that kind of thing."

"So, who?" Jo asked, pushing the button on the phone to close the call she had completed.

All eyes turned to Rachelle.

"What?" Rachelle glowered back at them. "I'm not the only common denominator here. Both incidents took place at your house, St. John. Mike, you could just as easily have been a target. You've been in the same places I have."

"Yes," Mike agreed. "But, I'm not the one involved in Company deliberations on Airwolf."

"Trust me; that fact has nothing to do with this."

"What about Pierreponte?" String asked as innocuously as he could. If Rachelle's eyes could have flashed fire, they would have. String mentally filed that piece of information away and waited for her response.

"I don't know what you think you know, Stringfellow," Rachelle's voice was barely above a whisper, but her rage bled through loudly, "But Maxwell isn't part of the equation. Now, I'm tired. I'm going to get cleaned up and go to bed. If Amara or her people want a statement from me, they can get it in the morning."

Mike caught Rachelle's arm as she stormed past. "I'm going with you."

"I'm a big girl, Mike; I can take care of myself."

"A big hard-ass with a possible concussion," Mike countered. "You can refuse medical treatment, but you will not refuse me. I'll be waking you up every few hours. If you don't respond, I'll have an ambulance here so fast it will make your pretty, albeit very hard, head spin."

As they watched Rachelle relent, and Mike follow her into the house, St. John queried his brother, "You hit a nerve. Want to tell me what that was about?"

"A hunch right now. I'll let you know when I have something more," String replied. "In the meantime, let's get some plywood over that shattered window. I'm sure Amara's team will be here for forensics shortly, but we might as well be prepared to seal the place up when they're done."

St. John glanced at his neighbor's house. The Appletons were on vacation, and it didn't appear that the gunfire melee had spread past his property. The lot next door was vacant and further down the street no lights illuminated the Maguire house. Apparently, those in the Hawke household were the only witnesses and victims of the recent event. "It's going to be a long night," St. John muttered to no one in particular.

Jo stood on the porch watching St. John. Hearing his comment, she responded, "I'll put on the coffee," and headed into the kitchen.

--

Ashleigh slid her iPhone back into her shoulder bag and snagged another chip from the almost decimated plate of nachos in front of her. It was going to get worse long before it got better. She had just received a summons from her boss putting her on a multijurisdictional taskforce being organized, by of all agencies, the Department of the Interior. The summons would place her with members of Homeland Security and the Department of Defense as well as the DOI. She didn't need to be a gambler to infer that with their ties to two of the named agencies, a member or members of the Airwolf team would probably be included in the taskforce.

Asheligh had mixed feelings about working with the Airwolf team members. She and Rachelle had been partnered for years, but their current relationship was strained with the information about Pierreponte's apparent Lazarus act to maneuver back into the land of the living. While he may have cut a deal to avoid lethal injection, Ashleigh wasn't sure that he would avoid Rachelle's fatal intent if they were to ever find themselves in the same room. Ashleigh shrugged off that ugly scenario. No one would be stupid enough to contrive that situation.

As for the other members of the Airwolf team, Ashleigh's ambivalence only heightened. She and String were oil and water. Throw the spark of sexual tension on their volatile mix and one would burn the other to the core; that much was certain. After their latest confrontation over the aforementioned Pierreponte, Ashleigh was pretty sure that they wouldn't be able to work together without one or the other causing some kind of harm. She just wasn't sure what kind of harm, physical or emotional, not that either was a good thing.

That left Jason, St. John, Mike, and Jo. Ashleigh immediately crossed Locke off as a potential partner. While he was indeed a member of the team, his role had shifted more to the administrative security side of things. She didn't think he was suited to the fieldwork that this taskforce was sure to entail.

Ashleigh tipped her bottle and swallowed the last gulp as she pondered the oldest Hawke sibling. For whatever reason, she had never really bonded with St. John. They were polite to each other, and each knew that the other was more than competent in his or her regard, but that was simply as far as their interaction had ever gone. However, if she were to compare their lack of relationship to a partnership with either of the other two Hawke siblings, Ashleigh would have to admit that currently working with St. John was the only viable scenario involving a member with the Hawke surname.

There was always Mike, but a partnership with him was fraught with potential problems. Ashleigh liked him. She knew he was good for Rachelle too. The root problem of Ashleigh and Mike working together though was Rachelle. Ashleigh had already inadvertently but still knowingly burned her current friendship with Rachelle. She certainly didn't think working closely with Rae's current love interest would be good for any of them.

Lastly, there was Jo. Ashleigh smiled. Now, that pairing could be a good thing. She and Jo got along like close sisters. They seemed to know how each other operated and played off one another's strengths as if they had been previously partnered. They also had a uniting bond, neither one was a Hawke.

"Hey, mind if I join you?" a gruff voice that sounded like it had smoked one too many cigarettes asked. Not waiting for an official reply, the body attached to the voice took the seat opposite of Ashleigh and scooped up a nacho, taking the last jalapeño with the bite.

"Help yourself," Ashleigh replied sarcastically and reached for the uninvited guest's bottle of beer to take a swig. "That was quick. I just got the intel a few minutes ago. How'd you know where to find me?"

"You're a creature of habit."

Ashleigh snorted derisively. "Really, Fulton, have you been following me?"

"Paranoid, much?" replied Fulton, moving the remnants of the nachos to his side of the table and quickly finishing them.

"It's not paranoia when they really are out to get you."

Fulton cracked a smile and leaned against the back of the bar height stool. "I like Top Gun as much as the next guy. That Kelley McGillis is hot."

Ashleigh rolled her eyes, and her partner took that as encouragement. "Hey, where else would I rather be on a Friday night?"

"Give," Ashleigh commanded, waving her fingers to her palm with the request.

"Party pooper," Fulton complained.

"Fulton," the word was issued as a warning.

"Nex thought it might be a good idea if you were shadowed for a little while especially with the upcoming taskforce operation and the star witness."

"C'mon, Fulton," Ashleigh growled with irritation. Even if it were in her best interest, she did not take kindly to anyone, her superiors included, going over her head. "It's a non-issue."

"It is a credible threat." All traces of good-humor vanished from Fulton's eyes with his assertion.

"He is not going to make any moves that would jeopardize his relationship with the AG's office."

"Ashleigh, you and Rachelle are the sole complainants against him. You don't think that if he had a chance he'd have you two loose ends tied up?"

"It does him no good to eliminate us," Ashleigh countered. "He's in protective custody for what and who he knows. The crimes he committed before and during might as well be a wash."

"He's still responsible for his crimes."

"Yeah, tell that to Rachelle."

"She knows?"

"She came to me. I didn't have a choice. Besides she was going to find out soon enough."

"Is his cover blown?"

"I don't see how. I don't know his name, location, or anything. If I did, I certainly wouldn't pass that information along, and the Marshals would have relocated him long before I could do anything about it even if I were so inclined." Ashleigh moved her hands to her temples to massage away the headache that always seemed to intensify whenever Maxwell Pierreponte was part of the conversation.

"Yeah, I could use a cigarette," grumbled Fulton, his hand reaching for his breast pocket of its own accord. "Damned California statute; stupid voters."

"Walk me out," Ashleigh preempted, in attempt to dissuade him from a well-rehearsed rant.

Sliding from his chair, Fulton quirked his trademark grin at her as Ashleigh left a generous tip on the table. "Ashlyn says hello, by the way."

Ashleigh turned to face her partner. "Don't start, okay. I've been really busy."

"Too busy to make her four year birthday party next month?"

"God, is she four already? Didn't Marie just give birth to her?"

"See, it has been too long," Fulton grinned and tapped a cigarette from a pack that was already half gone.

"Isn't that the pack that you bought at lunch today?" Ashleigh asked and watched Fulton flick a lighter to catch the tip of the item in question before they had cleared the door to the bar.

"Maybe," he mumbled through clenched teeth and slid the lighter back into his pant pocket. A white cloud billowed through his nose as he exhaled the nicotine vice.

They turned the corner and reached a small alleyway where Ashleigh had managed to find a parking spot during the happy hour rush several hours ago. The late hour, or early depending on one's perspective, had made the stretch of cars seem lonely and isolated. A sense of unease crept along Ashleigh's spine, and suddenly, she was glad that Fulton had steamrolled past her nonchalance. "Those things are going to kill you," she harped, making a half-hearted grab for the cigarette that he held in his hand.

"Yeah, so you and Marie keep telling me." Fulton easily avoided her reach and headed to her car as a truck further down the block pulled away from the curb.

Ashleigh clicked the key fob to unlock the doors and light the interior of her vehicle. Fulton gave the car a cursory once over and opened the driver's side door for her. As Ashleigh got settled behind the wheel, Fulton leaned against the open door frame and rested his palms against the hood. "Do me a favor, and call when you get back home."

"You're making too much of this," Ashleigh sighed, but at the look on his face, she relented. "I'll call, but if your wife gets mad, you take the heat."

Fulton's eyes smiled before his mouth curved around the cigarette that had found its way back to his lips. "Deal."

A sharp crack took the light from Fulton's eyes. His jaw dropped open in surprise, and his cigarette freefell into Ashleigh's car.

"Ful…" Ashleigh was unable to complete the word as her brain processed the events that were speeding by her eyes. Fulton's hands moved inexplicably to his chest; a dark crimson stain started spreading across his purple shirt. His eyes rolled close, and he toppled across Ashleigh's lap.

"Fulton!" Ashleigh yelled, as her partner's dead weight fell against her. "Fulton, damn it; answer me!" Ashleigh maneuvered him down to the ground as best as she could and reached for her purse to grab her phone and gun. Her fingers groped for a pulse at Fulton's carotid as her other hand simultaneously grazed the barrel of her gun, but neither act was completed as she was forcibly pulled from her car.

A cloth soaked with a sweet smelling substance muffled Ashleigh's scream. She was unable to stop herself from struggling even through her brain, now foggy from several inhalations, had categorized the substance as chloroform. She tried to elbow the attacker that held the cloth against her face, but she only succeeded in landing a weak blow. Her efforts only intensified the grip of her assailant, and Ashleigh was helpless as the effects of the chemical took effect.

--

_ MP5 or formally HK54 - 9 mm submachine gun of German design, developed in the 1960s by a group of engineers from the West German arms manufacturer Heckler & Koch GmbH (HK). en./wiki/MP5_


	5. Nightmares

_A/N: Please note that this chapter is rated M, for scenes with strong adult themes. The scenes are tasteful but sexually descriptive. If you are under the age of 16 or if you are offended by such subject matter, please do not read._

**Chapter Five **_(M - sexually explicit content, strong language_)

**Nightmares**

A shrill ringing woke Xavier Nex from a sound sleep. Blearily, he reached for his alarm clock before his brain processed that the incessant noise was coming from another source. Not recognizing the phone number on his caller id, he sat up and answered in a gruff voice, "Nex."

The caller on the end of the line was silent for a minute. Nex could hear some kind of commotion occurring in the background and the unmistakable sounds of emergency vehicle sirens. "Um, Xavier Nex?" a voice finally asked.

"Yes, this is FBI Assistant Director, Xavier Nex," he replied formally, still trying to gauge why he was being awoken in the pre-dawn by someone who apparently didn't know who he was.

"Yes sir. This is Detective Lorenz with the Burbank PD."

Nex's confusion jump shifted into anxiety. A call from law enforcement outside of his jurisdiction was never a good thing. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and sat fully upright.

"Sir, the reason I'm calling is because you were listed as the emergency contact for an Ashleigh Francisco."

"Yes, Special Agent, Francisco, is under my command," Nex interrupted. He suddenly felt the need to make sure that the officer on the other line was aware of whom he was speaking.

"Sir, there has been an accident."

"Accident or incident?" Nex was already on the move heading to the closet to pull on some clothes.

"Incident, sir," Detective Lorenz clarified.

"What happened?"

"We responded to a car fire this morning. The car was registered to your agent. Sir, there's a body inside the car."

Nex rubbed his face as he tried unsuccessfully not to conjure the images of the scene the detective was describing. "You're sure that it is Agent Francisco?"

"It is her vehicle, sir, VIN and license plates match. We have a forensic anthropologist on the way to verify the deceased's identity."

I'm in Long Beach, Detective. Give me location, and I'll be there shortly."

"Sir, I don't think that is such a good idea."

"It may not be, but that is what is going to happen."

Nex jotted down the location and hung up the phone. Within seconds, he was dialing another number. The call immediately went into voicemail.

"Fulton, it's Nex. I need to talk to you, asap." Punching the disconnect, Nex grabbed the keys to his car and headed out the door.

* * *

Rachelle cracked her eyes open to look at her clock. She officially had fifteen minutes before she needed to be awake, but her body did not seem to give that fact much weight. Careful to not jar her head anymore than was necessary or to wake her bedmate, she switched her alarm off and shrugged out from under Mike's arm that was wrapped snuggly around her waist. She stilled as the exhausted man grumbled unhappily and then rolled onto his other side. Releasing the breath she hadn't realized that she had been holding, Rachelle slid the rest of the way off of the bed. She walked quietly to the bathroom adjoining her room and pulled the door closed behind her.

Blinking in the sudden, bright light bathing the room from the vanity fixtures, Rachelle turned on the faucet and gently dabbed cool water onto her face. She wasn't quite willing to look at the damage from last night, so she kept her eyes averted as she squeezed a bit of toothpaste on her brush and commenced the daily routine. Finding courage in the mint tang of the abrasive, Rachelle finally met her blue gaze in the mirror. As she anticipated, she wasn't the prettiest of sights.

Last night, after liberally dousing the wound with antiseptic, Mike had helped her place a couple of butterfly bandages over the cut to help the skin mend more quickly. The gash had ended up being only about an inch long and had been superficial in its depth. Mike hadn't thought it would scar, and she hadn't cared too much since the laceration was almost in her hairline anyway.

Taking a washcloth from the towel bar, Rachelle wet it and carefully swiped it against her forehead to remove the slight orange tint remaining from the antibacterial ointment. The final result was a linear cut surrounded by slightly bruised skin. Rachelle compared her brow with her healing arm and grimaced. She would bet that in a day or so the two bruises would be identical in their shades of psychedelic purple-blue, brownish green and yellow. They would, no doubt, be colorful badges to remind her brothers and Mike of the trouble she had been having of late.

Pushing away from the sink, Rachelle turned on the shower. While she waited for the water to hit a desirable temperature, she pulled open the medicine cabinet and dumped a couple of acetaminophen in her palm. She swallowed them, disrobed, and slid under the warm, inviting spray. As she lathered her hair, being ever vigilant of her injury, she couldn't help but revisit the recent events.

_Could the incident in the living room be related to last night? Was someone trying to send a warning, get even? String mentioned Maxwell, but that doesn't make any sense. He cooperated, got off scot-free with…_

Rachelle squeezed her eyes closed and began breathing through her mouth as her memories turned ugly and her emotions began a visceral rollercoaster that if she didn't quickly reign in, would spiral completely out of control.

Knowing that he was dead, relying on that fact, had always been a way to settle her anxiety whenever her memories decided to wage their own unabridged, private screening of her life. Having that coping strategy stripped from her repertoire left her defenseless. Desperate to do anything to keep from reliving the events of her life, Rachelle flipped the temperature controls to cold. The icy stream slammed into her heated neck and rolled down her spine. Her body spasmed with the painful stimuli, but rather than move away from the discomfort, Rachelle pushed more of herself into it, allowing the frigid water to take her breath along with her thoughts.

* * *

The buzz of an alarm brought Mike's left hand crashing down on the offending object blaring from his side of the bed. Hitting the snooze button, he rolled back over and reached for Rachelle. His arm hit the flatness of the sheets rather than the yielding form of a body. Alarmed, Mike lifted himself to his elbows and searched the room. A line of light shining from the bottom of the bathroom door and the sound of running water salved his apprehension, and he flopped back against the mattress.

After he had helped Rachelle dress her wound and get to bed last night, he had, as promised, started checking on her every couple of hours or so. Somewhere between the second and third trip from his room to hers, he had decided that it would be more efficient for him to simply stay the night with her. But, even with the much-shortened trip, the medical vigil had broken his sleep enough to keep it from being less than rejuvenating. He scrubbed his hands over his face and stumbled from the bed with one thought on his mind, hot shower.

Mike opened the door to the bathroom and was pleased to see the steam fogged mirror creating a frosted, distorted picture of the room. As he looked to the shower, he caught a glimpse of Rachelle's body through the parting of the shower curtain where it didn't quite meet the wall. His eyes danced over her, taking in every inch of her: her creamy-white skin, the way her legs curved, one slightly bent in front of the other, the subtle swell of her bottom and hips as they narrowed upward to the hourglass shape of her waist. She was a sight he could watch all day and never tire.

Surreptitiously, Mike moved the curtain further away to give him full view of the woman in the shower. Rachelle was leaning against the wall that housed the water controls. Her head was down, water racing down the valley of her back to her bottom and splitting at her hips. The water that didn't follow the main path detoured across her neck and eventually poured down her breasts, which were gently swaying with the motion of her fingers combing through her long hair, separating into it thick coils that spilled over her left shoulder. Mike had to physically bite back his groan of appreciation and quickly kicked off his sweats. Sliding the curtain back, he stepped in to join her.

Rachelle glanced back at the sound of intrusion, but her position under the spray of the shower remained unchanged. Mike stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Jesus!" he swore, as the cold water splashed painfully against his abdomen. Without thought, he reached around her and adjusted the temperature. Not waiting for the thermostat to adjust, Mike pulled Rachelle against him, her back fitting snuggly to his front. He could feel the gooseflesh peppering her body as she trembled violently against him, her arms crossing her exposed breasts in a defensive hug. Instinctively, he tightened his hold on her.

As the water warmed them both, Rachelle turned into Mike's embrace and laid her head in the crook of his neck. Slowly, her body stopped trembling from the cold, and Mike attempted to gently push her back. But, Rachelle only tightened her grip around his neck and pressed her body more securely against his. Not speaking, they stood under the jets. Even the water cascading over them could not penetrate the fit of their bodies.

After some time, Rachelle stepped away and turned to leave. Mike stopped her, his hand catching her wrist. She stared at his fingers wrapped around her arm and finally raised her gaze to meet his. Her blue eyes silently begged for him to let her go, but Mike didn't comply.

"What's wrong?"

Saying nothing, Rachelle twisted her arm to catch his wrist and pulled him toward her, kissing him. As she flicked her tongue tantalizingly against his lips, he responded by deepening the kiss and grabbing her hips effectively trapping her body against his. With the taste of her, feel of her, Mike quickly forgot his question.

Rachelle felt his arousal and slid her leg upwards, trying to find the ledge of the tub. Catching the edge with her toe and using Mike for balance, she lifted herself up until she was a head higher than he. With one arm secured around his neck to steady her, she settled against him.

Mike groaned and kissed her passionately as she fitted herself fully to him. He wrapped his arms around her hips; his hands grabbed her bottom. Rachelle responded by sliding her other leg around his waist and locking her ankles together. Supporting all of her weight, Mike turned toward the shower wall and pinned Rachelle against the cold surface. She arched her back in resistance, pushing him even further. With her fingernails digging into his shoulder, urging him, Mike couldn't hold back any longer.

Physically spent, he used his last ounce of energy to turn them so that his back was now resting against the tile, and finally, he lowered Rachelle until her feet were once again resting on the floor. One of his hands trailed lazily down the slick curve of her spine and came to a rest against the juncture above her hip.

Rachelle watched Mike's expression change from raw passion to complete fatigue. Her lips quirked in an emotionless smile, and she stepped out of the tub. "I'll get you a towel," she promised and closed the curtain. Mike stood in the hot steam and caught his breath.

After some time, Mike turned off the water and pulled back the curtain. True to her word, Rachelle had hung a fresh towel on the hook. Mike took the cloth and began to dry off. As he was wiping his face, he stopped mid-motion. _Fuck!_ he closed his eyes in exasperation, _literally_.

This wasn't the first time that Rachelle had evaded answering questions. Whenever things got too intense, when he was on the edge of breaking through, Rae would turn up the heat, and he would obligingly follow. Hell, the sex was fantastic. But that was all it was, sex. If they were going to ever become anything more, and he suddenly realized that he did want more, then this had to stop. She had to stop using her body to hold him at arm's length, and he had to stop letting her.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Mike opened the door; he was not going to let Rachelle get away, not this time. She, however, was nowhere to be seen. Angry, both with himself and her, he finger-combed his hair and headed to his room to get dressed. He didn't bother to hurry. He knew that by the time he got downstairs, she would be long gone. It was a pattern with which he was very familiar.

* * *

Cold followed by pain were the first sensations Ashleigh felt as she fought her way back to consciousness. Blinking her eyes rapidly to help dislodge the fuzziness of her brain, she attempted to rub at her pounding head but was unable to complete the move. She blinked again, harder, trying to clear her eyes, catch her bearings, and determine why her hands wouldn't cooperate.

_Where the hell am I, and why can't I move my arms? _Her vision swam, and her stomach roiled as she caught the chemical aftertaste of chloroform. Memory sparked.

"Fulton?" Ashleigh called, her voice sounded like a croaking rasp, and she tried to turn to look for her partner, but the maneuver only caused something to scrape uncomfortably against her exposed back.

Taking a calming breath, Ashleigh closed her eyes and reopened them slowly. Her vision remained dim, but it wasn't because her eyes weren't working properly. The room was murky; only a scant amount of light was filtering through a grimy rectangle located on the wall to her left. The dismally, small window was only about sixteen inches from the ceiling and probably not much longer than a couple of feet wide and half as tall, and it was the only source of light in the room.

As she turned her head to look the other direction, her cheek pressed against something cold and rough and her hands jangled slightly above her head. Ashleigh pulled on her arms again, but they remained elevated and out of her line of sight. She was apparently shackled somehow against one of the walls of the room. Judging from their rough texture, they were some kind of masonry, probably cinder block, which meant more than likely she was in a basement of a building, somewhere.

Ashleigh shivered again and shifted her weight as best she could on the concrete floor. She appeared to be alone, but she had no idea how long that might be the case; she had to act. She didn't wear bobby pins, and she didn't have access to anything small enough to pick the small lock nor did she have a spare cuff key. The only advantage she had was her slender wrists.

Ashleigh knew it would hurt that she might break her thumb, but she had to try. She began to pull continuously and straight down on her restraints. She stifled a cry of pain as the metal bit into her flesh. The metal rubbed her wrist raw; a slick moisture began to slide down her arm. Using the blood as a lubricant, she pulled until her left hand came free of the handcuffs. She cradled her injured arm in her lap, and her other arm fell woodenly to her side as the handcuffs slid off the pipe on which they had been held. Pins and needle rushed into her arms as the circulation returned to her semi-starved appendages.

Ashleigh had no more time to react as a key rattled in what she guessed was the only entrance into the room. She tried to stand but ended up stumbling as the door opened and the room was cast into stark brilliance from a bare light bulb anchored into the low ceiling. Ashleigh blinked furiously and tried to shield her eyes.

"I see you're awake, and mobile," a voice rumbled from the entryway.

Ashleigh backed away until her back flattened itself against the wall. She lowered the arm shielding her eyes and wrapped it across her body. "Who are you; what do you want?"

"Where is Pierre Gunn?"

"Who?" Ashleigh shook her head in confusion. She didn't know anyone by that name.

Ashleigh's interrogator moved fully into the room. The metal door clanged behind him rattling the casing with its weight. "I don't have time for games, Agent Francisco." To highlight his point, the man unsheathed a long tube from his belt. With a flick of a switch, a noisy, visible current arced between two electrodes embedded in the tip of the flashlight. Ashleigh's eyes widened in recognition of the object.

"I see, we are on the same page now. You know what this is?" Ashleigh nodded her head hesitantly as her eyes scoured the room for a means of escape.

The interrogator stepped forward menacingly, and Ashleigh's eyes immediately fixed back to him. "Nasty little item," he continued, lifting the weapon and brandishing it like a fencer preparing to thrust. "Those imbeciles at the DOI say that as long as this device is used on animals, it isn't inhumane. But, humans are animals; aren't they?"

Ashleigh shifted as the man jabbed the tip of the weapon at her. She parried the arm holding the weapon aside and made a grab for the device. She didn't anticipate that the housing below the electrodes would be electrified. Her hand sizzled; her arm immediately went fiery hot to numb, and she let go and fell backward slightly dazed.

"Oh, I guess, I should have mentioned that this baby's been modified to be more than a simple prodder of cattle. Now, do I need to ask you twice?"

Ashleigh shook her head and held out a hand in surrender. "I don't know a Pierre Gunn," she hissed trying to ignore the wave of pain in her arm from her nerves firing chaotically.

The modified stun baton made contact with her upper arm and she writhed back until her body slammed against the wall. "Please," she begged and shied away from another hit. The rod hummed electrically as it barely missed her ear.

"We're tired of waiting. He made promises and now is the time to deliver. You know where he is, so end this."

"Wait," Ashleigh breathed raggedly. "I'll tell you what you want to know, but you have to stop swinging that thing."

The interrogator smiled tightly, the expression sinister. "I'm waiting."

Ashleigh pushed herself from the wall and slammed her foot into her assailant's groin. As the man crumpled, she kicked out and dislodged the pole from his grasp. Scooping it up, she turned it on and jabbed it into his neck. The man screamed in agony and hit the floor hard. Fighting the temptation to keep the current running into his body, Ashleigh switched off the weapon and threw it across the room. She slid her hands over the insensate man and quickly found a ring of keys. She had to hurry, to get out of there, to find Fulton. Scooping up the stun baton, Ashleigh unlocked the door and ran.

Ashleigh sprinted down the small corridor only to find another locked door. Frantically, she tried the keys on the ring. After fumbling for a few minutes, she found the correct one and opened the door and ran straight into the barrel of a .45 Smith & Wesson. She raised the stun baton in the air momentarily weighing if she could use it before the gun fired.

Rather than the sharp report of a bullet entering her brain, Ashleigh felt a bolt of energy slam into the base of her skull. A field of blue closed around the tunnel of her vision, and her body fired nerves out of sequence. She barely registered the clatter of the stun gun falling uselessly to the floor. Her body immediately followed, dropping her to the floor in an unconscious heap.

* * *

Rachelle looked up as the door to the committee room opened to let Mike and St. John enter. Her eyes locked with Mike's, and she knew that there was trouble. It was further confirmed when he chose to sit across from her rather than in the vacant chair next to her.

Avoiding Mike's intense gaze, Rachelle turned her attention back to the folder she had been perusing. While the overall fate of the team had yet to be decided, the Department of Justice had specifically requested the Airwolf Team to take part in a joint terrorism task force. This particular task force was being led by the US Attorney General's Office and would consist of specialized members within the local FBI office, the Department of Defense, the National Security Division, the Environmental Protection Agency, and the Department of the Interior. Originally, Rachelle had been confused by the DOI's contribution in the taskforce, but after reading the extensive dossier, it had become quite clear.

The DOI was a target. It hadn't started out as one, but its policies toward conservation, or lack thereof, and the blind eye that it appeared to be giving certain industries had singled the department out as a likely candidate for terrorist activities. However, these terrorist activities were not associated with groups located in the Middle East but with homegrown eco-terrorists.

SAVE, Society Against Violations to the Earth, was an organization designed to raise public awareness to the environmental impact of various industries. They tackled issues from animal rights to farmer aid to tribal land arbitration to protection of critical water supplies and so forth. The movement was, by in large, peaceful, using public demonstrations and grassroots initiatives to bring about policy change. Unfortunately, as with most organizations of this type, fringe groups erupted.

Once such fringe group, under the false pretense of SAVE, was making a name for itself by employing more extreme tactics, acts of violence, to bring attention to the plight of the environment. They had already taken credit for activities ranging from some simple acts of petty vandalism upwards to arson. While in the past most of the activity had focused on property, costing some industries thousands, even millions, now individuals associated with policies against which SAVE stood, were receiving personal threats.

The main door opening again caused Rachelle to stop reading. She looked up and saw two pair of suits entering the conference room. Given their standard government attire, she assumed they were from one of the three lettered departments. She glanced at the list of members and then at her watch. Neither Ashleigh nor her partner, Tom Fulton, had arrived.

The chair next to Rachelle slid away from the table, but it wasn't the motion that brought her attention to her new companion. It was his hand on hers.

"We need to talk." Mike's voice was soft, but his touch on her wrist was demanding.

"Not here," Rachelle replied and yanked her hand away. There was no way in hell she was going to have the conversation that Mike wanted in a Company conference room.

Mike ran a hand through his hair in frustration. Jason had called them at the house to inform them about the meeting. He had also said that under no circumstances should Rachelle be present. How the hell was Mike supposed to get her out of the conference room and for that matter why? He didn't have time to further wonder as the conference door opened again, and Amanda Gibbs from the Attorney General's office entered followed by three men. The chair beside him, the one Rachelle had been sitting in, flew backward and slammed into the wall.

"Gun!" someone yelled.

Mike stared in horror as he looked from Rachelle to the men in the doorway. She stood perfectly calm, her hand held her Glock 38 fire ready, her finger curled around the trigger, her aim steady on one of the men. Shielding the unarmed man whom she was targeting, the other two men held their department issues pointing directly back at her.


	6. Below the Surface

**Chapter 6 **_(T - mild language)_

**Below the Surface**

String sat on the patio of the coffee shop and unfolded the newspaper in front of him. To the casual observer, he was out on a Saturday morning enjoying leisure time with java and the reporters of the _Leader_. In reality, he was waiting for a drop.

The sun glinted off his mirrored sunglasses as he surreptitiously glanced at his surroundings over the edge of the local news section. He leaned forward and took a sip of the still steaming cup in front of him and caught the time on his watch. _She was late._

String wasn't surprised. Catherine Faraday, Cat, was never one to worry about the hour. Even her plans with colleagues were never time driven. She marched to the beat of her own drummer whether or not the drummer had a schedule to keep.

String flipped the page over and folded the section in half to make it easier to read and to keep his surroundings in view. There was little in the Burbank paper that would catch his attention anyway. He scanned the headlines. Seeing an article about a recent string of vehicle arsons down by the Bob Hope Airport, he stopped skimming, rested his forearms on the table, and began actually reading.

The area near the airport had been fraught with low-level vandalism in the form of arson. Police had had the area under surveillance for several weeks but had been focusing on the north side. This arson had broken the pattern and occurred on the southwestern side, fairly close to the bar that he and Ashleigh had gone to last night. The other difference was this most recent act had escalated the charges to murder. A body had been found early that morning in a burned out shell of a car.

"Hawke, so good to see you; it's been ages." The honey-sweet voice belonged to an attractive woman with long, blonde hair. Setting her own steaming cup on the table, she took the seat opposite of String's.

String turned his focus to the voice and looked at the woman now sitting across from him. He took his time responding, knowing that his eyes were well hidden behind his glasses. She had changed her appearance. The last time he had seen her, she had had close-cropped red hair. She also had changed her accent.

"Cat," String finally greeted.

Cat's mouth formed a perfect pout as she looked back at him. "What, no I missed you too?" String's lips twitching into a hint of a smile and then falling to neutral were the only indication he gave that he had even heard her.

"Fine," she glowered at him and then brightened suddenly, "where is your better half?"

"Married," String replied, glad once again for the shades. He knew he could school his features to belie his thoughts, but his eyes would have given him away; they always had.

Cat was warming to the subject; as a result, her suppressed Irish lilt was now noticeable in her voice. "Really? You should have told me. I would have sent a gift. When did you two tie the knot, you lucky dog?"

"We didn't; she married someone else."

Cat floundered speechless for a few seconds then recovered, "So you're back on the market?"

"I was never off of the market."

Cat murmured something softly in her native tongue. String could not catch the exact wording, but wishing to get back to a more pertinent topic, he baited, "Careful, Cat, your Irish is showing."

His words had the desired effect. Cat's green eyes flashed something dangerous, and this time she uttered something in Gaelic loud enough for him to hear clearly. String's smile broadened at her curse, and he leaned back in his chair contented that he had derailed her thoughts on Caitlin and him, or lack thereof.

Cat pulled out her BlackBerry and typed quickly on the small screen. Her lips pursed in concentration, she reached for her mug and took a tentative sip. She frowned in aggravation when she tasted the liquid. "Commercial shops," she sighed and then pushed her BlackBerry over to String.

String looked over the screen and shook his head in resignation. "I told you I was good for it."

"Yes, but my prices have changed."

"This is not a reflection of me bringing up the Emerald Isle?"

"I even gave you the friend discount." Cat smiled, as she shook her head negatively in response to his previous comment.

String pulled out his cell and dialed a number. Placing a finger over the mouthpiece, he looked back at her. "This may take a few minutes."

"I'll go get some more, hopefully better, tea then."

Fifteen minutes later, as String hung up his cell, Cat returned to the table. She was holding a bottle of water in one hand. One of String's eyebrows rose over the rim of his sunglasses. Cat saw the movement and answered, "You really don't want to know what they do to tea in there. All set?"

String nodded.

Again, Cat withdrew her BlackBerry and typed a few minutes. A delighted smile alighted on her face, and she handed over her PDA to String. "It's all yours."

"Couldn't find something in basic black or gray?" he commented, looking over the purple handheld device.

"No, and you bought and paid for it."

"That's what I like about you, Cat, always thinking of others."

"I aim to please." Cat removed the screw top to her bottle and sipped the cold liquid. She then turned serious. "Pierrepont is a piece of work. Watch your back."

"I always do."

Cat reached over and placed a hand over his. There was a sense of urgency in her touch. "He did a number on that FBI agent, left her for dead. Your government played a nice bit of cover up in all of it."

At the mention of one of the targets, String raised his head sharply. "Which one?"

Cat released her grip on his arm and flitted her hand back toward the purple BlackBerry. "It's all in there."

This time it was String who reached across the table to grab her arm. "Which one," he repeated.

"Bastún," Cat snarled and pulled her wrist from his grip. "Do that again, and you'll be limping for the next week." Angrily, she rubbed at her wrist.

String held up his hand in a conciliatory gesture, but his voice held its own warning. "It's important, Cat."

"Go hifreann leat!" Cat cursed furiously and grabbed her bag. Her chair scraped noisily on the crushed stone patio as she stood to leave.

Risking his health, String stood and caught her arm again. He blocked the fist that came flying toward his jaw and the knee that was aimed at his groin. "One of those agents is my sister," Sting hissed in her ear as he swiveled her so that her back was flat to his chest, keeping her appendages from making contact with his vital body parts. His words stunned her to silence; the fight left her. Ignoring the scene that they had made, String pulled out a chair and let Cat slide into it.

"Which one?" The fact that Cat repeated his same question back to him had not escaped him.

"Karrison." String saw the emotions flit across her eyes and knew the answer.

"Tá brón orm," Cat whispered softly and reached for the BlackBerry to thumb scroll through the files. She handed the device back to String and watched as he silently read the information. The only outward appearance he gave to the data he was digesting was the clenching and unclenching of his jaw.

The chirrup of his cell phone startled both of them. For a moment, String considered letting it forward to voicemail, but knowing the ring tone was set to St. John as the caller, he chose to answer it.

"Yeah," he growled tersely. There was a momentary pause. "They did what!"

Cat flinched at his shout. It was one thing to stage a scene to disappear from a drop; it was quite another to stick around to become weekend morning entertainment for patrons of a local coffee shop. Grabbing her water, bag, String's PDA, and String himself, she directed them away from the patio and toward a small park she had passed on her way to the meet.

As she walked, Cat kept her ears focused on the one-sided conversation. The dialogue was short. After a sequence of, very un-Hawke-like expletives, String snapped his phone closed with force. He stopped walking, and Cat turned to look at him.

"You know all of this stuff?" String gestured to the PDA in her hand.

Cat nodded and gave the device back to him.

String took the purple handheld and shoved it into his pocket. He then ran his fingers through his hair obviously weighing what he was going to say. Rather than standing around, Cat walked over to a small bench situated near the sidewalk and sat down to wait him out. String followed but remained standing. "I need you to do another job for me."

"Like the last one?"

"Sort of. How are your legal representation skills?"

A Cheshire grin spread across Cat's face, and she patted the seat next to her in invitation.

* * *

Mike watched through the one-way glass as Rachelle paced the small perimeter of the holding room where she had been brought. She reminded him of a caged tiger, her body tense as if she might fly across the room and attack at a moment's notice.

If someone had asked if he thought he knew who Rachelle Hawke was, before this morning, he would have undoubtedly said yes. After all, they had been friendly for over a year, sleeping together for months. Right now, however, after what had happened in the conference room, he was not so sure what his answer would be.

_As Rachelle's chair slammed into the wall next to him, the last thing Mike had expected was to find her standing with a gun in her hand. Then everything happened so fast yet seemed to move in slow motion. The marshals drew their weapons in response to her threat; he and St, John stood_, _trying to diffuse the situation, and half of the other members of the taskforce also rose to their feet, their own firearms drawn. _

_Rachelle made no motion to lower her Glock even after she had been commanded to stand down. Her lack of response scared Mike. He knew that if she didn't make a pacifying gesture, the marshals would fire. She wouldn't stand a chance, so he did the only thing he could think of at the time._

_Mike moved directly into Rachelle's sight path. He placed his body in front of her gun, the barrel brushing against his left pectoral. Rachelle didn't blink, didn't move; her finger remained solidly affixed to the trigger. As Mike stood, literally in the line of fire, his brain suddenly went into research mode naming facts about the weapon lethally pressed against his chest. There was no safety on the Glock 38. The only safety was a finger outside of the trigger guard. He had hoped that his actions would have signaled that event. They had not._

"_Give me the gun, Rae," his voice was whisper quiet, and his hand moved to the one that was holding the gun._

_Rachelle didn't blink, didn't falter. He wasn't sure that she even saw him, and for a brief fleeting second, he wasn't sure that she wouldn't fire through him to get to her target. His fingertip grazed the barrel, and she flinched. The gun moved but not away from the target. It pressed itself even more firmly against his chest. _

"_Get out of the way." Rachelle's warning was toneless, automatic. She gave no ground, showed no semblance of cooperating._

"_You don't want to do this." Mike watched her eyes, looking for some way to reach her._

"_Yes, I do." The declaration was fierce and punctuated with a hiss of breath. Her eyes were determined._

_As Mike kept himself between Rachelle and her target as well as between the marshals and theirs, St. John slowly crept behind his sister. Careful to not give away St. John's position, Mike watched his progress from the corner of his eye. He knew it very well might come down to brother taking out sister. Keeping her as distracted as possible, Mike asked the one question that might make things clear. "Why?"_

_The anguish that flooded Rachelle's eyes was enough to make him regret his question, to want to take it back. For the first time since this whole standoff had begun, he recognized the woman in front of him. Even though the barrel of the gun scraping his chest did not move, he felt her hand shake, and she looked at him, not through him, but at him. _

_Rachelle's eyes closed, and her head dropped along with her hand, gun loosely in her grip, finger out of the guard. "You have no idea what you've done." _

Her words still echoed in his head as he stood watching her through the glass. It wasn't just the words, but the way they had sounded. Mike shook his head and looked at the marshal guarding the entrance to the room holding her. Deciding that it was worth trying to engage the man in conversation again, Mike held up his wrists to show the metal bands encircling them. "You know these are really not necessary,"

The guard didn't even grunt a response. Given the marshal's lack of expression, Mike thought the man must have been part of the British Royal Guard at one point in his life. "I'm complying, and I won't hit you again." As before, his comments were met with stony silence.

Mike sighed. He wouldn't hit the marshal again. He wouldn't have hit him in the first place, if the guy hadn't brutally grabbed Rachelle and muscled her to the ground as soon as she had lowered her weapon. Mike had already diffused the situation. The use of force by the marshal had been unnecessary and excessive. Rachelle had not been resisting. In fact, she hadn't even reacted at all. So, Mike had acted for her. His reward had been his own way to the floor and pair of matching handcuffs.

If the clock on the wall were correct, all of that had happened more than an hour ago, and Mike and Rachelle were still cooling their heels in separate rooms. Hopefully, St. John could find a way to help expedite their release; although given everything, Mike wasn't sure that would even be an option. In the conference room, St. John had done his best to try and talk them out of their predicament, but the representative from the attorney general's office had not listened to a word he'd said. She had warned that if St. John acted in any manner, he too would be taken into custody.

Mike resumed his position against the glass wall and looked back into the room housing Rachelle. She had finally come to a rest and was now seated at the metal table. She sat stiffly, arms resting in her lap, still adjoined at the wrist by her own set of cuffs. Her eyes stared directly at the mirrored pane hiding the other room. Mike fixed onto her blue gaze, trying to see what was going on in her head. Her eyes were cold. He knew she couldn't see him, but the way she still seemed to look through him unsettled him.

Idly, a memory floated to the front of his mind. She looked almost like Jason had when he had been under the control of the Ridgemont Institute. Could Rachelle be under some kind of impulse control? He immediately rejected the idea. Rachelle's actions in the conference room, while disturbing and contrary to who he knew her to be, were not those of someone under someone else's control, at least not directly. If that had been the case, she would have shot through him in an instant. Mike's gaze focused on the ugly bruise decorating her forehead. She had been hurt last night. Maybe she had some kind of head injury? That thought caused his heart to beat faster in worry, but he quickly dismissed that possibility as well. None of her other actions prior to or after would warrant that diagnosis. So what?

Mike's thoughts were abandoned as the door to the room burst open, and the very angry representative from the attorney general's office entered along with an additional marshal presumably for her own personal protection. She was on the phone.

"I don't care the circumstances; my meeting, my taskforce, has been shot to hell. You tell your representatives to get their collective asses over here in the next hour, or there will be sanctions."

There was a brief pause as the woman came up for air. She glared in Mike's direction, and then continued, "No, Nex, you are the lead agency here. Get me someone from the local office now, and take care of your own people!" She slammed the phone shut and turned to Mike.

"Your little stunt in there just eviscerated my taskforce, Major."

"With all due respect, ma'am, _my_ stunt in there kept at least one of your men from being truly eviscerated."

The woman was not pleased at Mike's use of semantics against her, and that emotion clearly showed in her piercing brown gaze. "I want answers, Major."

_So do I, _Mike agreed silently. "I think, you'll have to go to the source then."

"Connors," the woman commanded, and the marshal guarding the entrance to Rachelle's room snapped to attention. Mike marveled in silence that the man was capable of standing even straighter than he had been. "Remove the cuffs from the major. You're free to go," she threw over her shoulder as she passed him and moved to the room where Rachelle was being held.

"Thanks," Mike replied, rubbing his wrists reflexively as the marshal removed his restraints. "If it is all the same to you, I think, I'll stay."

"Suit yourself." she dismissed him.

As she closed the door to the room escorted by both marshals, Mike moved to the observation window. Since the powers that be had apparently decided that he was no longer a threat, he was now alone in the room. Gingerly, he toggled the small switch to the intercom box mounted on the wall. He wanted answers as well.

* * *

Rachelle barely glanced up as a woman flanked by two guards, marshals, entered her room. The only indication that she was even aware that she was no longer alone came from the slight straightening of her spine against the metal back of her chair.

"Ms. Hawke, I'm Amanda Gibbs with the US Attorney General's Office," the woman said taking the seat across from Rachelle as her escorts covered each side of the door. "I want to know why you just attempted to murder my federal witness."

Rachelle looked up into the African American woman's face and blinked silently. Her final response was to lower her eyes back to her clasped hands resting on the table in front of them.

Rachelle's lack of reaction incensed, the attorney general representative. "Do you have any idea how serious this is? These are federal charges. You know what that means?"

Before Rachelle could offer any answer, the door to the room opened again. Both of the marshals reacted at once, guns drawn and targeting the unexpected intruder. "Easy boys," a honey-haired woman spoke in a heavy southern accent. "I'm here on Ms. Hawke's behalf."

Holding her hand outstretched to the other woman in the room, she introduced herself. "Catherine Faraday. Ms. Hawke's brother asked me to represent his sister in this unfortunate chain of events, that apparently your office jangled up."

"Amanda Gibbs, US Attorney General's Office," the other woman replied, ignoring the proffered hand. "I don't recall placing Ms. Hawke under formal arrest."

"Yes, well," Cat continued, coming to stand behind Rachelle, "the handcuffs seem to indicate otherwise."

"The handcuffs were for my men's protection, Faraday."

"Yes, she does appear to be very dangerous." The comment was laced with saccharine sarcasm. To prove the point, Rachelle remained immobile; her only motion was the shifting of her eyes as she scanned the two other women in room.

"Your client drew a gun and attempted to kill a man in my custody in front of a half dozen witnesses all from various law enforcement agencies."

"With no provocation?"

"We entered the room."

"Indeed. Ms. Gibbs, are you aware of the relationship of your witness to my client?"

"Enlighten me, Faraday."

"I'd like you to meet, Rachel Karrison, ex-FBI, that your client…"

"Stop," Rachelle ordered, looking at her counsel. "Ms. Gibbs, I take full responsibility for my actions."

"Hawke," Cat growled, "I advise you to keep your mouth shut."

"That's quite all right, Ms. Faraday, things have become crystal clear for me," Amanda interrupted, looking at the detainee with more tolerant eyes. "I was under the impression that Karrison was a non-factor in this taskforce. Agent Francisco was to be the only prior complainant in the room. She already was aware of the full specs for the mission. No one told me that Ms. Hawke and Karrison were one and the same."

Cat grunted in incredulity. "You have sources all over the map, and you want us to buy that load of crap?"

Amanda ignored the comment and continued. "Given what has happened, I'm willing to overlook this incident."

"Good," Cat interrupted and turned to Rachelle, "let's go."

"Not so fast, counselor. I have conditions for her release. First, she is to surrender all of her firearms. Second, she is not to have access to my witness for the duration of the taskforce operation. In fact, I don't want her in the same vicinity as my witness. That means effective immediately she has a TRO of 500 feet. That includes Company Headquarters"

"Are you out of your mind?" Cat argued. "Given the circumstances, I think, the TRO should be against your witness."

"I disagree. Ms. Hawke has shown herself to be the aggressor. My witness has not had prior contact with her nor does he need to."

"Congratulations, the AG's office has just set victim's rights back several decades."

"Faraday," Rachelle interrupted the tirade she could see the woman preparing on her behalf, "I'll accept the terms."

"Good. If you violate any of the terms, you will be incarcerated for the duration of this mission. Do you understand?"

Rachelle nodded in defeat. She was suddenly very tired and only wanted to get out of there. Her counsel apparently knew the whole sordid affair, and Rachelle was still trying to come to terms with the fiasco in the conference room. As it were, she knew that she was going to have to do damage control with St. John and Mike.

"All right then. Connors, will you remove Ms. Hawke's handcuffs?" Rachelle did her best not to flinch as the marshal took his time removing the restraints around her wrists.

"I'll be taking Ms. Hawke, into my custody," Cat announced.

"That is fine, counselor. But, I'm releasing her into Major River's keeping. Once she is escorted off of Company grounds, you can take her wherever you'd like." Amanda turned to the mirrored glass and addressed the wall. "I assume that you are still there, Major."

In answer to her statement, Mike opened the door to the holding room. "Please escort Ms. Hawke from the premises. And, I am charging you that she does not return. You do understand those orders; do you not?"

"Yes," Mike agreed and walked over to where Rachelle stood. "Let's go," he spoke softly and placed his hand on the small of her back to lead her from the room.

Out in the anteroom where Mike had been watching the exchange between the women, Cat stopped. "I've got some unfinished business with String. Can you take her from here? I assume she is in good hands."

Mike nodded as he glanced at his unwilling charge. Although Rachelle had schooled herself beautifully, he had felt the small jump in her spine when he had touched her. He could feel the tension radiating from her, but she didn't express any of this verbally.

Cat smiled and tried to catch Hawke's sister's eye. "Don't worry; I'll make sure that the TRO is revoked. You may not be able to be part of the taskforce, which from what I've seen isn't such a bad thing, but you sure as hell aren't going to lose the rights to your own workplace."

Rachelle did little more than nod her head solemnly. Mike and Rachelle walked in the opposite direction of Cat's departure and headed out to the main doors.

Once the anteroom was clear, Amanda walked back into the holding room. "Connors and Dawson," she called, and the two marshals in the room walked to their employer. "Go make sure that Mr. Gunn is settled in the safe house. I would prefer that we don't have a repeat performance of this morning."

As soon as the two marshals had left, Amanda returned to the table and spoke out loud, "You can come out now." A panel of the opposing wall slid aside, and a woman entered. "That could have gone better," Amanda complained as she watched her companion slide into the seat Hawke had vacated a few minutes ago.

"Relax, Amanda, everything is going according to plan."

"You almost cost me my prime witness."

"I'd think getting rid of Gunn might be an added bonus," the other woman replied smugly. "The bastard deserves no better. If Hawke had killed him, it would have only strengthened our agenda."

"Did you have anything to do with Francisco?" Amanda asked changing tactics. The surprised look on the other woman's face was enough of a confirmation, and not waiting for a verbal response, Amanda continued, "She's MIA. Nex called to tell me they found her car. It was burned supposedly by the same folks involved in the airport arsons in Burbank."

"Agent Francisco was not part of the plan."

"I know; they also found a body."

"Hers?"

"No, male. Agent Francisco hasn't been seen since last night with none other than Stringfellow Hawke."

"We do not have her in custody. Has anything come in on the line?"

"I've ears to the ground, but no."

"Well, that is curious, but perhaps, we can turn this to our advantage, step up the timetable so to speak."

"So, I continue on?"

"You've got your orders, Amanda; they haven't changed."

* * *

_1) Translation to English from Gaeilge (Irish Gaelic) –__These were found from various sources on the web. Their authenticity is not proven. I don't speak Gaelic. Any errors made are mine with apologies to the Irish._

_Bastún – bastard_

_ Go hifreann leat –to hell with you_

_ Tá brón orm – I'm sorry_

_2) Reference to the Ridgemont Institute: Episode 20, Season 4: The Puppet Master._


	7. Confessions

**Chapter 7**

**Confessions **_(M - suggestive content, graphic imagery, strong language)_

By the time Mike drove away from the small café where they had stopped for lunch, the bright, sunny morning had deteriorated to a gloomy midafternoon. Rachelle had said nothing to him since they had left the Company compound. She had barely even whispered an order to the waitress, and when the food had arrived, she had only picked at it. Mike had had about as much as he could take. Making a quick decision, he turned north on the 101 instead of south back toward St. John's house.

The only sound that punctured the quiet of the car was the hum of the tires on the wet pavement. Rachelle kept her peace and simply stared at the small water droplets: gathering on the window, growing into larger droplets, running along the top of the window and down to the rubber seal. She paid no attention to the unusual scenery blurring beyond the water interplay on the window. In fact, she was so lost in her own thoughts it took her several seconds to realize that the car had slowed and come to a final stop in a parking lot. Blinking at the unfamiliar landscape, she turned to Mike. "Where are we?"

"Point Mugu. We need to talk," Mike stated and removed the keys from the ignition. He then opened his door and vacated the car.

Rachelle made no move to exit the vehicle. Close quarters were not a good thing when it came to talking, especially on the topic that was fresh on Mike's mind, but talking in a state park didn't seem like a better idea. Mike opened the passenger side door and motioned for her to get out.

"It's raining," she hedged.

"Sprinkling and barely at that." Mike reached in and undid her safety buckle. "Come on." He took her hand and helped her out of the car.

Rachelle allowed herself to be pulled from the vehicle. They resumed their silence as Mike led the way down a path that indicated a heading toward the beach. Because of the weather, the path was empty and likely the beach would be as well. Rachelle shivered slightly as she followed him. She couldn't decide if it were in anticipation of the conversation or the chilly dampness of the air.

Mike didn't stop until they reached a semi flat area ringed by dunes and bluffs and a few boulders. . As expected, this stretch of the beach and trails was completely deserted. Rachelle settled on a rather large rock and looked out over the gray sky blending itself into the stormy blues of the ocean. The waves from the ocean created a loud background noise as they crashed against the rugged coastline. The salty ocean water was pulverized into a mist and seemed to saturate the air.

Mike sunk next to Rachelle and watched the horizon as well. He rested his forearms on his knees and idly picked at a few strands of coastal grass, threading them through his fingers. Dropping the remnants to the ground, he turned his body so that he was sitting half facing her and half facing the water. "I thought you were going to shoot me," he stated flatly.

Rachelle looked up and caught his blue eyes staring into hers. She saw the pain, the confusion, in his gaze and just as quickly lowered her eyes in shame. "I would never have done that."

"What is going on, Rae?"

Rachelle swallowed hard. _Not here, not now, please. _Instead of giving a verbal reply, she reached over and gently traced the contours of Mike's face with her fingers. They stopped at his jaw line, and she leaned into him bringing her lips to meet his.

Almost as if memorizing the way Rachelle tasted and felt, Mike closed his eyes and let her kiss him. It took all of his self-control to not kiss her back, but he couldn't allow himself to follow that path: the path that became all physical without emotion, the path that led to quick sex and a lonely heart. As she attempted to deepen the kiss, he moved his hands to her shoulders and pushed her away. "No, not this time."

Rachelle's eyes sparkled with anger at his rebuff. She wasn't sure how to handle his rejection. She quickly changed tactics. "Fuck you," she hissed and drew away from him.

"That's right," Mike growled, throwing his hands in the air, "fuck me! That's how you always answer the tough questions, isn't it?"

The anger simmering in Rachelle's blue eyes sparked to rage, and she slapped him. Her ears rang with the sound of her hand impacting against his cheek. Her hand stung from the contact, but it was the breathless pain that crimped her heart that made her turn away. With halting steps, she started walking toward the beach. She stumbled and increased her pace. Before she knew it, she was running.

Mike's hand touched his face where it still smarted from Rachelle's blow. He had touched a nerve, and even though the backlash had hurt, at least, she had reacted. Looking at her back, he watched the pattern beginning to repeat. She was running away once again. At least, here there was nowhere to run, only the general direction of away. Feeling that he had given her more than a fair head start, he went after her.

Mike found his pace quickly, and soon he was gaining ground. He had several advantages over Rachelle. He was fast. He had been captain of the track team and had carried his field skills throughout his life, engaging in marathons and relays, winning several. He also knew this stretch of Point Mugu. He had been coming here since his Air Force days. While he hadn't visited recently, he knew the landscape wouldn't have changed that much. He had selected this place specifically in case Rachelle tried to pull one of her disappearing acts. It wouldn't matter which direction she chose. Large, rugged bluffs flanked each side of the beach creating this small oasis between them, and the cliffs were impassable from the shoreline. Finally, he was better dressed for an impromptu race. His jeans and casual shoes were a better choice than a pantsuit and heels.

Mike came upon Rachelle and weighed his options. He didn't really want a flying tackle, but with both of their momentums, it was unlikely that a full stop would be very forgiving. Putting an additional burst of speed, Mike paralleled her, caught her arm, and came to a full stop. Inertia took over.

Rachelle stumbled as her footing slid from the backward drag. Trying to regain her equilibrium and remain in an upright position, she pivoted and came face to face with Mike's chest. He blocked her fall as she solidly crashed against him.

Mike was more than prepared for Rachelle's next counter maneuver. He had sparred with her on numerous occasions and knew that she was moving into fight mode as her flight had been preempted. He also knew that when cornered, she could and would fight dirty. As she tried to pull out of his grasp, he let her go, and she fell backward, landing gracelessly on her rear end.

Rachelle gasped for air from both her ill-fated run and unexpected impact with the ground. Her fingers clutched at the sand.

"Unless you want me to step on your wrists, I suggest you drop the sand."

Rachelle glared up at Mike who loomed over her. He didn't have the decency to even act winded. Meanwhile, she was gulping in air as if it had been denied to her for hours. Knowing that he would indeed act upon his threat, she uncurled her fingers from the earth. It wouldn't have been an advantage anyway; flinging sand at an attacker worked best if it were dry grains rather than wet clumps.

Satisfied that Rachelle would at least not be hurling items at him, Mike sunk to his knees beside her. He kept a watchful eye on her and waited until her breathing resumed a less labored cadence. "You don't get to hit and run."

Rachelle could see the faint, red imprint of her hand still marking his cheek. Apparently, she had put enough force behind it that it might form a bruise. "Leave me alone."

"Not an option. You lost out on that when you put a gun to my chest."

Rachelle hugged her knees to her torso and locked her wrists underneath them. Her eyes skittered to the shoreline in avoidance of his intense stare.

"You can't run away, Rae, not this time. I won't let you. I'm fighting here. Fighting for us, but it is a one-sided battle. I can't win this if you won't help me."

Dropping her head to her bent knees, she spoke quietly, "Walk away, Mike. Leave the damaged goods, and just walk away."

Mike had to strain to hear her above the crash of the surf. When the words registered, he became angry. He was done. If she weren't going to fight for them, there was nothing left; maybe there never had been anything to fight for to begin with. He stood abruptly and began stalking away. He had taken several steps when he realized that he was once again giving into her wishes. She was manipulating him with words instead of actions this time.

Spinning around, he approached Rachelle and hauled her to her feet. His fingers dug into her upper arms as he practically shook her to make her look at him. "I deserve better than this," he gritted through clenched teeth. "We deserve better than this. Stop putting up walls that I have to tear down to get to you. This goddamned secret is killing you, and it is destroying us."

Rachelle's eyes widened in fright at Mike's uncharacteristic vehemence, directed completely at her. Gods, she had hurt him. It wasn't supposed to happen. When had she gotten so close to him, too close to him?

"You know what?" Mike released her so quickly that she almost fell. "Forget it. If you're not going to give me the answers, then I'll go to Faraday. She obviously knows the whole story."

"Wait," Rachelle whispered in protest. For a moment, she wasn't sure that Mike had even heard her; he was still moving away from her. She saw him falter slightly, but he didn't change his course from the path leading back to the car. As she watched him continue away from her, she fought a bitter internal battle. Letting him go meant sparing herself. Stopping him meant that she cared enough for him to give him the truth that he thought he so desperately wanted.

Kicking off her shoes, Rachelle sprinted to catch up with him. "I said, wait," she repeated and grabbed his wrist. Only her physical contact stopped his forward progress.

"Why, Rae, so you can push me away again, or whenever it suits you?"

The words hurt. Even if they were the truth, it didn't take the sting out of them. Nor did knowing that part of the reason she did what she did was more than self-preservation. "You're right. I have pushed you away, and part of me wants to continue to push you away," she admitted. The honesty ringing in her voice made Mike turn to look at her.

"You've gotten too close. You weren't supposed to be here." Rachelle's right hand curled against her chest in a gesture to indicate her heart. Her left hand still in contact with his wrist clutched tighter in desperation. She knew she should make him leave. It would be so much better, but heaven help, her she wasn't that strong, not anymore.

"I don't want to do this," she whispered. Her eyes begged him for a reprieve, but he would have none of it. Her hand left his, and she wrapped her arms around herself in a defensive hug.

Mike saw the pain in her eyes. He saw the tears welling. For all of her tactics, Rachelle was never one to use tears to her advantage. Although he wanted to with every fiber of his being, he refrained from touching her. This was likely the only breakthrough he would be granted, and he wouldn't jeopardize this last chance. "You have to trust me."

His voice was so gentle, so persuading, that it actually made Rachelle's heart hurt even more. "It was never about trust," she whispered and turned to face the ocean.

"Then what is it about?"

"It is about me, about choices I've made, about trying to live with the consequences."

Rachelle was silent for a long moment, staring out at the surf. The weather had turned progressively darker; drizzle was now mixing with the ocean spray. As if searching for something to do with her hands, she undid the fastener to her braid and began unplaiting her hair. "The man in the conference room was Maxwell Pierreponte."

Mike's eyes flashed in recognition of the name. String had used the name last night after the shooting. Rachelle had reacted. Mike had been so worried about her injury that he hadn't paid a great deal of attention.

Finished setting her hair free, Rachelle's hands returned to their earlier self-hug position. "Six years ago, I was under deep cover with the Bureau. Pierreponte was my target.

"He was a chemist and microbiologist that had caught the eye of one of the Maroni generals." Hearing the name of the notorious South American cartel caused Mike's hands to clench reflexively.

"Maxwell did mostly small scale stuff, designer drugs, but between that and his biological research, he had become a person of interest to the organization. Maxwell and the Maroni Cartel came to an arrangement: Maxwell would verify the drugs, sometimes adding designer elements to them, and in return, he would be paid with women or with funds for his research, which if fruitful would be added to the weapons arsenal of the cartel.

"Maxwell had a weakness for beautiful women, and the high-end prostitutes that belonged to the cartel were definitely that. It was actually these women that led me to take the job in the first place. The FBI had credible information that the cartel was engaging in human trafficking to supplement their business.

"I spent two months working the clubs where Maxwell was known to associate, studying him, his habits. The main thing that I had learned about him was he liked a challenge; something he wasn't getting from the girls that Maroni supplied. That's what made me stand out. That was how I got in."

Mike's jaw flexed with suppressed emotion. He knew that deep cover would mean that Rachelle was entrenched in the organization, doing whatever she had to to stay alive and to make her cover work. It also meant that she and Pierreponte had been lovers. He had already noticed that she had stopped using his surname to refer to him. That in itself was a telling indicator of the intimacy they had shared.

"He was charming," Rachelle continued, oblivious to how her words affected Mike. "He treated me as an equal, sharing his work, his passions." She stopped as if lost in thought for a moment, and then she hugged herself more tightly. "It wasn't until Ashleigh's cover was blown that I saw his true nature, his sadistic side."

Rachelle's hands unwrapped from her body. Mike saw how they shook as she tried to remove the strands of hair that were now blowing across her face. Her eyes were clouded with distant memories. She looked as if she were drowning in them. Gently, he reached out his hand to stroke her cheek, bring her back to the present, and he immediately regretted the move as she violently jerked away. In that brief moment, he saw her whole face and knew hell would have been a better place than where she was right then.

Her voice lost all emotion, all tone, as she continued speaking. "I have never seen such fury." She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only magnified the ghostly voices ringing in her ears and intensified the images pouring into her brain. "I fought for Ashleigh's life. He was going to kill her."

"Until I got him to focus on me." An incongruous smile, doing little to stem the pain radiating from her, graced her lips. The drizzle had turned into full-fledged rain and was falling on the both of them now, but neither seemed to notice. Rachelle's features paled even more so as she turned and looked directly into Mike's face. "We fought. He won."

"Stop," Mike begged. This was not what he had expected.

"You know, I said those same words." She was lost in her own mind. The words that came tumbling out of her mouth were babbled as the dam of memories disintegrated what was left of her defenses. "He didn't listen.

"I thought the blows would never stop, but finally they did. That's when he threw me down the stairs. When my head cracked against the floor, I thought it was over, but he just kept coming. My body was broken, so he went after my spirit. He raped me, but even that wasn't enough. When he was done, he just simply switched to a knife." In her mind's eye, she could clearly see the glint of the blade before she blacked out.

Her muscles must have remembered as well. Her knees buckled, and she sank bonelessly to the sand. She didn't even register Mike as he pulled her against him and made a shushing sound against her hair. She couldn't seem to stop. "The damage was so severe, that I bled out on the scene. My pressure was zero by the time they wheeled me into the ER. It was a miracle I survived at all."

Mike's hands threaded into her hair and pressed her close against him. He knew there was no sheltering her from the past, but it didn't stop him from trying. The heavens opened up, and the rain poured against the couple desperately embracing on the sand.

"I can't have children," she blurted out against his neck. "I'm sorry. I know that you wanted to have kids, lots of them, but as a result…I can't." It was this admission that caused her tears to slide down her cheeks.

Mike couldn't speak. There were no words. He held her as she cried, knowing that some of her tears coursing down his neck were mingling with his own. All this time, he had known her; all this time, she had never uttered a word, never given away this hidden part of herself.

"I was in the hospital for sixteen weeks," her voice was raw as she plunged on to finish the story. "While in I was in recovery, they caught him. He was tried for his crimes, sentenced to death. His appeal process was exhausted quickly. I got the call a year and a half later that they had plunged the needle in his arm. It wasn't until that moment that I felt safe. The nightmares stopped; he couldn't hurt me any more.

"Then, yesterday, I found out he was alive. The government had granted him some kind of immunity for testifying against the cartel. He was absolved of all of his crimes and placed in the witness protection program. Ashleigh confirmed it. She had known for some time but had never told me. I think, it was her way of protecting me. She knew that if I knew he was alive, I wouldn't be able to stop the nightmares when they came.

"I knew I wasn't supposed to be at that meeting this morning. I inadvertently found out about it when I went to see Amara to give her my statement of what happened last night. She let the information slip. I didn't know why I was being excluded; I just thought that Locke was playing games with me. I'm still not sure whom Locke was protecting or even how much if anything he knows. I certainly didn't expect to come face to face with Pierreponte.

"I snapped when I saw him; I was within a hair's breath of pulling the trigger, but you stepped into my line of fire. And as much as I wanted him dead, I couldn't sacrifice you. You are the only reason I didn't take the shot."

"I wish you had," Mike murmured.

A mirthless smile appeared on Rachelle's face as she responded, "Yeah, there is a part of me that wishes I had to. I'm sorry," she whispered in contrition. She didn't have the strength to hide her words, her thoughts. That had all been stripped away in the reliving of the hell that was Maxwell Pierreponte. "I'm just so tired."

He knew she was. Her eyes were gray with fatigue; dark circles sunk below them. The tears she had shed hadn't helped nor had the rain that was finally slowing to a gentle sprinkle. Mike released her and slowly stood, doing his best to dust the wet sand from his legs. He reached out a sandy hand, and Rachelle took it allowing him to pull her upright as well. He took one last look around the beach and knew in his heart that this would be the last time he ever came to Point Mugu.

"Come on." Mike wrapped an arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the path.

* * *

Mike's gaze flicked from the road to glance over at Rachelle curled next to him in the passenger seat. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn't sleeping, not really. She didn't sport the look of someone at peace.

At least, she appeared to be warmer now. When they had finally made it back to the car, after running back to collect her ruined shoes, she had been so cold that her body was literally vibrating with chills; he could even hear her teeth chattering. He had rummaged around in the trunk and collected a fairly clean t-shirt and jacket. She had gratefully changed from her wet clothes and put on his dry offerings. The t-shirt fell to her knees, and the jacket had been even more oversized.

Mike reached over and turned the heater off. He was still pretty wet and sandy, but the heat was making him more humid than dry. He turned onto the 405 and started driving north toward St. John's house in Santa Clarita. He glanced once again at Rachelle; she had changed position, tucking her feet underneath her and turning slightly into the chair.

So much made sense now: the control she exerted over every situation, the shying away from intimacy, the need she had to prove herself over and over again, her insane privacy issues that kept everyone at arm's length, even the odd characteristics of her relationship with Ashleigh. He felt like a fool for not putting it together before today. He could rationalize that it was because he was caught up in the newness of it all, of her, of them, but it didn't make him feel any better.

A memory of last Christmas began playing in his mind. He had taken Rachelle out to Minnesota to meet his family. He wanted to show her off, let her see a little bit more of who he was outside of work. His mom had taken a shine to her immediately, so had his father and brother. They were all seated around the dinner table when Brian made his announcement. His wife Melissa was pregnant. Mike's parents were going to be grandparents in June; Mike was going to be an uncle.

Mike had been thrilled. He had gone on and on about children and how he wanted to have a big family. Rachelle had listened, had smiled, and had allowed him to talk at length. He had been so blind that he barely registered her reticence on the subject. That had been the first night they had slept together.

Mike slammed his fist hard against the steering wheel, and he immediately regretted his impulsivity as Rachelle jerked upright. Her luminescent eyes still shuttered by exhaustion stared at him. He wondered briefly if the haunted look hidden in their depths would ever completely disappear. Casting her a sheepish look, he reached over and squeezed her hand. "Sorry," he mumbled and returned his attention to the road to make his turn off of the freeway.

"It's okay," Rachelle murmured back and straightened in the seat. She readjusted the jacket to cover her bare legs and glanced at the landmarks passing outside the window. They were relatively close to St. John's house. Gathering her courage to once again broach the unwelcome topic, she took a breath and plunged in, "I dropped a lot of stuff on you back there. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

She took in Mike's profile: the set of his jaw, his grip the steering wheel, his eyes, which kept flitting to her. "Liar," she accused.

Mike blew out a breath through his teeth and spared her another glance. "I'll be fine," he amended.

"It's okay to be angry."

This time Mike's gaze lingered on her for more than a second. "I'm not angry with you."

There was her opening. "Sure you are."

"No, I'm not," he reiterated, trying not to clench the steering wheel any tighter. "Not you." The trailing comment was almost a whisper.

"I kept this very important part of me away from you. I've basically lied through our entire relationship. I put you in the untenable position of protecting the man who brutalized me, and you aren't angry?"

Mike pulled into the driveway and put the gearshift into park. He didn't know what to say, so he just sat in the driver's seat and looked at the house in front of him.

Rachelle kept going. "I know that you are angry with me for being in that situation to begin with." She held up a hand to stop his protest. "Anger and blame are not the same things.

"When I watched the footage from the Cypress Party, saw your documented injuries, knew how close you had come to dying, I was angry with you. You had put yourself in that situation. Sure, you didn't mean for it to go to hell. It just did. I don't blame you for what happened, but I was angry at you for being there in the first place."

Mike just stared at her.

"Oh c'mon, don't give me that look." She smiled a genuine smile, even if it were a slight bit self-deprecating. "I'm allowed to be enlightened. I've had a lot longer to digest what happened six years ago than the, what, two hours you've had. Besides, it is a lot easier to be the first person in the situation rather than a secondary bystander after the fact. As the first person, you could do something or at least know that you did everything you could; as a second person, you sit helplessly listening to events you can never influence, control, or change."

"I want to kill the bastard." The hatred in his words was palpable.

"Get in line," Rachelle shot back, her own vengeance punctuating her remark. "But, right now, and possibly forever, that isn't an option. He's a federal witness, under federal protect. Protection that, like it or not, you are obligated to provide."

"Does that 'you' include everyone in this car or just me?"

"I have a TRO; I'm not allowed to get within 500 feet of him," Rachelle answered indirectly.

Mike saw right through the evasion. "Rachelle," he warned.

"I don't have any firearms either," she elaborated.

"Rae."

Rachelle undid her safety restraint and moved to the door. "I'm not going to do anything tonight, but get cleaned up and go to bed." With that unsatisfactory answer, she departed the vehicle and went into the house.


	8. Consequences

_A/N: After much internal debate, I have raised the overall rating to this story to M. Most of the chapters fit within a T rating, but since I have a couple of chapters that are definitely closer to M, (chapter 5, sexually descriptive content; 7, adult content and language). I have decided to err on the side of discretion, probably to the point of over-kill, and raise the rating for the entire story. It is too bad, that ff doesn't allow a chapter rating, but these are the constraints in which I will endeavor to operate. For assistance to readers, I will offer chapter ratings with the chapter number to aid in decisions to read chapters or not._

--

**Chapter 8 - **_(T - mild language)_**  
**

**Consequences**

Hearing a familiar mechanical hum, Mike looked up from the stove where the minestrone soup Jo had made a few days ago was just being to simmer. The garage door was in the process of closing as both St. John and Stringfellow entered the house; both were on their cell phones.

"Yeah, Jo, so I need you to do a full pre-flight. We are going to need her in the next couple of days. I'll get you the particulars in the morning." St. John paused and nodded a greeting to Mike.

"Yeah, I do too. No, I'll see you in the morning. Bye." St. John pushed the end button on his phone and moved to set it in the charger. He then turned to look at his brother, who silently hung up his own phone.

"No luck?"

"It's just going directly into voicemail. And, now that is full." String answered, following St. John's lead to plug his phone in to recharge as well. "She doesn't have a landline, and the voicemail at her office is also full. Did the Bureau say anything?"

"No," St. John replied and glanced at the pot of soup that Mike was heating. "There enough for the rest of us?" At Mike's nod, St. John pulled another couple of bowls from the cupboard and set them on the countertop before continuing, "Agent Fielding finally showed about an hour before the meeting broke. He didn't offer more than a quick apology to the attorney general. I tried to catch up with him when we finished, but he was already gone by the time I ran into you in the hallway."

"Why do we need Airwolf?" Mike interrupted, as he pulled leftover salad from the fridge and placed it next to the half of the bread loaf he had retrieved from the pantry.

A quick flit of eyes from the Hawke brothers to each other and then to Mike was the immediate response. Mike saw it and growled, "I really hate it when you two do that."

"Where's Rae?" String asked, ignoring Mike's comment.

"Upstairs, sleeping, I think. She was pretty tired."

"Did she say anything to you?" String's questions were suddenly sounding more like an interrogation, and Mike wasn't sure how much he should say.

"We talked," Mike hedged and turned his attention to putting the mixture of lettuce and vegetables into a bowl. He didn't need to look up to see more of the silent communication occurring between the two siblings. "You still didn't answer my question."

"We have been requested to provide safe transport to and from a federal hearing for a federal witness."

The words had scarcely left his mouth before Mike yelled, "Are you out of your mind?" He couldn't suppress his fury and ended up grabbing St. John's shirt and pulling him aggressively face-to-face. "How the hell could you agree to…"

"Back off, Mike." St. John pushed him off, breaking Mike's grip and forcing him to take a step backwards. "Rachelle flipped out and tried to kill someone in that meeting; you jumped in and got collared for your efforts. Both of you put me in a position without any options. I did what I had to do."

"Well, bully for you," Mike snarled and shoved his hands through his hair. "You know that your sister wouldn't act like that unless she had a good reason."

"Maybe," St. John agreed, "but if I hadn't agreed to the AG's terms, both of you would be rotting away somewhere."

"Gibbs made those the conditions?" String finally broke his silence as he watched the two men stand off.

"Yes."

"Well, we've certainly been played in all of this."

St. John looked at his brother questioningly. They hadn't had more than a couple of minutes outside the conference room to talk, and String had been adamant that they not speak openly in the Company compound. They had agreed to bring each other up to speed at St. John's house since both of them had separate cars.

Without further verbal sparring, String pulled out a cheery purple PDA and set in on the kitchen table. The incongruity of the color of the device in String's possession rose eyebrows on the other two men, but they kept their peace. "Catherine Faraday collected some information for me. You need to see this," he directed his last comment to St. John and turned to Mike. "Given what you've said and how you've reacted, I take it that you already know the gist of this." He tilted his head to indicate the BlackBerry. Mike nodded his head in affirmation.

Hesitantly, String slid the purple handheld to St. John. "You need to sit down." The suggestion was issued as an order.

St. John slid into one of the kitchen chairs and picked up the device. As he read the file interspersed with graphic images, all of the color drained from his face. Mike reached over and plucked the PDA from St. John's loose grip. The full color image of a battered Rachelle stared back at him. Her head was wrapped in bandages and wires and tubes went in and out of her body. Although it was impossible to make out the actual numbers, the mechanical devices in the background glowed with eerie LED lights indicating body functioning. The white of the gauze wrapping her head only accentuated the ugly bruising on her right temple and eye socket. It was worse than the images his brain had supplied when she had told him of her ordeal. Unable to stop himself, Mike thumbed the scroll button, and more images and details filled the screen.

Enraged, he flipped the BlackBerry around and put the newest information in front of St. John's face. "Congratulations, big brother," Mike sneered, his anger pouring caustically into his words, "you've just agreed for us to protect the bastard that did this to your sister."

St. John's mouth opened but no sound escaped. He was rescued from a response, by an unnoticed figure darkening the doorway. "Leave him alone, Mike," a voice ordered from the threshold.

All three men snapped to attention at the entrance into the kitchen of the subject on the PDA. Wordlessly, Rachelle pulled the handheld out of Mike's hand.

"Don't," Mike warned, trying to tighten his grasp to keep her from looking at the images prominently displayed and failing.

Rachelle looked at the screen and felt her stomach roil at the bombardment of images from her past. Her whole, personal trauma laid bare and glaring for the world to see, worse than the world, her family, the people she loved. Her finger moved to the delete button, but she didn't push it. It wouldn't matter. The details were indelibly etched into their minds now. "Where did you get this?" The question sounded like an accusation; her tone augmented by a strangled catch of her breath.

String moved forward to answer, "Cat."

The one word utterance made her brother the focus of her eyes. In that one moment, String felt every bit of Rachelle's anger, horror, and violation and regretted his involvement in dragging out her past. "Cat," she repeated. "I've never seen this information before today. They look like photos taken for evidentiary purposes, but all of the court proceedings were sealed."

"Cat's good," String answered and moved close enough to touch his sister but refrained from actual contact.

Rachelle nodded and looked back at the photo, a particularly disturbing graphic of her face. This image must have been taken as soon as she had been moved out of surgery. The bank of machinery looked like it belonged in an ICU. All of the wounds looked particularly fresh. If she closed her eyes, which she steadfastly refused to do, she could enumerate the damage from each blow. Her hands balled into fists after she carefully and deliberately set the BlackBerry back down on the table. She lifted her head and made eye contact with each man in the room. "I am not that person," she declared. The intensity of her words magnified her hard gaze.

"Rae," St. John began, but Rachelle's eyes stabbed him to silence.

"I am not that person," she asserted again. "That woman is no longer with you. She was victimized, brutalized, and broken. She does not exist, and you have never known her."

"She is a part of you," String pushed. Denying what happened would only be detrimental.

Rachelle bowed her head and then came up with eyes even harder than before, piercing blues that defied him. "I am not that woman. I'm no more that woman than you are the man who lost Gabrielle or than you are the man in the MIA camps or than you are that man held hostage by the Cypress Party." She looked at each man as she addressed his own troubled past. "Don't deign to treat me as you would her." Her finger stabbed in the general direction of the handheld.

Deafening quiet followed Rachelle's words. Only the popping of bubbles from the soup simmering on the cooktop could be heard. String made the first move. He reached across the table and retrieved the PDA. He pushed several buttons, and after several minutes of silence, he handed the device back to Rachelle. She looked at the BlackBerry's blank screen. He had wiped the memory completely.

"Now," she whispered, trying to reign in the thick emotions coloring her voice, "if only you could do the same thing to your own minds."

Not wanting to see their reaction to her words, she turned away and gave her attention to the food. In moments, she had completed the dinner preparations and was transporting full soup bowls to the kitchen table. The trio of men followed suit: moving salad and utensils to place settings, cutting bread and adding to plates, preparing beverages, and gathering napkins and other necessary condiments. Each person took his or her respective seat and attempted to eat. Some were more successful than others.

As the meal drew to a close, String finally broke the silence. "Rachelle, have you heard from Ashleigh since last night?"

"She was supposed to be at the taskforce meeting."

"She never showed."

Rachelle put down the fork that had been scooting the same piece of lettuce across her plate for the past few minutes. She had tried, but had only succeeded in stomaching a small portion of the meal. Even with all of her talk about not being the woman featured on the PDA, she was unsuccessful in truly swaying herself.

Deciding that she had been able to make it look like she had eaten more than she had, Rachelle pushed the remnants of her dinner away and pulled her cell phone from one of the front the pockets of her slacks. She hit the speed dial number for Ashleigh. Her efforts were rewarded with a mechanical voice informing her that the voice mailbox she had reached was full. Rachelle's fingers danced over her phone again only to be given the same information from Ashleigh's work voicemail account. She traded a quick glance with String, knowing he had received the same answers to his earlier calls, and she thumbed her phone's address book to find another number.

_This is Xavier Nex; please leave a message, and I will return your call as soon as possible._

"Nex, it's Rachel Karrison. I'm trying to get in touch with Agent Francisco. Could you call me back at this number," Rachelle rattled her cell phone number quickly and repeated it before terminating the call.

"I left a message with her supervisor," she explained, catching the questioning look from the men seated around the table most likely in regards to the usage of her former name. "He'll be able to give me the Bureau version of what is going on."

* * *

The burning sensation of muscles that had been overworked, taxed beyond their means, hurled Ashleigh Francisco back into the land of consciousness. As a response, her eyes fluttered opened and then slammed closed as bright lights burned into her retinas. She took a shallow breath partially to calm her body's reaction to the motor memory and partially to orient herself.

The air in the room was scented with a faint tang of antiseptic and industrial bleach. Preparing for the onslaught of unforgiving fluorescence, Ashleigh cracked her eyes opened to a mere squint and attempted to place her surroundings. Her vision was blurry and unfocused. It took several attempts at blinking to clear her eyes enough to gauge her new location.

As she attempted to shift upright for a better vantage point, she immediately realized that she was once again restrained. She bent her head down to look at her body. Her clothing had been removed and replaced by a thin, short-sleeved smock that barely reached her knees. The cloth offered little protection from the air-conditioned chill in the air and the coldness of the bed on which she found herself.

She shifted her weight and slid an inch to her right. The iciness of the platform dug into her skin sending shivers down her spine. She was lying prone on what felt and looked like a stainless steel table, reminiscent of the gurneys used in a coroner's facility. That morbid thought, gave Ashleigh pause, and she swallowed hard to chase her thoughts from their current path. Instead, she focused on her wrists. White gauze had been wrapped around her injured hand, and wrapped around the white gauze was a soft, hospital belt-restraint.

Ashleigh glanced at her other hand. Sans the gauze, it too was bound securely to the metal bed. Experimentally, she worked her fingers to touch the exterior band of the cuffs. Her middle finger could just graze the edge, but there was no physical way for her to push the end through the loop and against the prongs that were secured through grommets. Nor could she slide her wrists from the straps as she had with the handcuffs. The binds were snug against her skin.

A chill that had nothing to do with the metal table ran across her body as she realized that in her current situation she was completely at the mercy of whoever her captors were. Not allowing herself to give into the panic that was just starting to seep beyond her control, she concentrated on the room in which she now occupied. It was quite different from the previous location, overly clean and stark in contrast.

The walls were white, reflecting the brilliance of the light and magnifying its intensity. A full bank of mid-sized mirrors covered half of the wall directly across from her. The mirrors stretched from the ceiling to about waist-high, and Ashleigh was willing to bet that the low-tech, shiny panes were being used to disguise an observation room. Occupying the same wall, at the corner of the room, was a door with a small portal window. A steel deadbolt winked somewhat more weakly in the brightness of the lights.

Next to the door was a small cabinet. It too sported an obvious lock. The box was painted the same white as the walls. Only the hardware and unbreakable glass door inserts highlighted its location. From her position, Ashleigh could see that the only other piece of furniture in the room appeared to be empty. It seemed odd that there would be such overkill on a locked cabinet if there were nothing inside to protect.

Ashleigh turned her head from side to side to allow her eyes to roam the walls to her left and right. They were blank. She tipped her head backward and managed to get a view of what was behind her. She was only able to make out the top portion of the back wall, but it too seemed to be desolate of everything, just blinding whiteness.

Because of the constant state of sterility and the odors permeating the room, she decided that she must be in some kind of medical facility. She had no more time to evaluate her circumstances as she heard a grating of metal sliding smoothly against metal, and the door to her prison slid open with a hermetic suction of air.

A figure dressed head to toe in a hazmat-type of bunny suit entered the room. The heavily gloved hands carried some kind of stainless steel vial in one hand and a five -step ladder in the other hand. Paying Ashleigh no mind, the figure passed her and proceeded to set the ladder upright on the floor.

As the person climbed to the ladder, Ashleigh called out, "Who are you; why am I here?"

The only indication that the figure heard her was a small falter before it continued climbing a few steps to easily reach the ceiling.

Lying on her back gave Ashleigh full view of what the person was doing. After removing a piece from what appeared to be a fire suppression system, White Bunny-Suit unscrewed the cap from the container that had been brought into the room. The vial was then attached to the sprinkler head. The completed ensemble looked almost identical to the other two, non-embellished, fire-deterrent devices in the room.

"I know where Pierre Gunn is," Ashleigh called out, as the figure collapsed the ladder and started to leave the room.

This time, White Bunny-Suit didn't even hesitate in the departure. All Ashleigh received for her ploy for more time, or to, at least, gather more information was a simple, dismissal wave.

Frustrated by the lack of progress in determining where and why she was in the room, Ashleigh leaned her head against the cold metal bed and took a deep, exasperated breath. Her eyes resumed staring at the added device to the sprinkler head.

_What the hell is that thing? It doesn't look like a camera. Besides, they have an observation window for that, and I sure won't be going anywhere soon._

She experimentally tugged at the restraints again. She knew that they would be steadfast, but she had the urge to do something, appear like she was doing something, anything.

_It's probably not a microphone or speaker, since White Bunny-Suit didn't care about the information I have on Pierre Gunn nor was Bunny interrupted by an outsider._

Ashleigh didn't know how else to refer to the person, the only person, she had seen during this phase of her imprisonment. The hazmat-suit made the individual non-descript; she couldn't even determine if it were male or female. The height could have been that of a tall woman or a short to average man.

_But, why the spacesuit? _ A hazmat-suit seemed to be an odd choice to conceal the identity of her captors. They could have just as easily blindfolded her. So, was it some kind of interrogation procedure to increase her anxiety of the unknown, or was there more to the suit than a disguise? Ashleigh took a cleansing breath to regulate her heart rate. _Well, I guess, it's working. I never did that great on the isolation training in Quantico._

Frustrated by her lack of control, she rolled her head from side to side, trying to release the tension building in her neck. Again, she tested the bindings on her wrists with no progress.

She pressed to her elbows and leaned semi-upright. Her feet were unfettered, but that did her little good. She was only able to touch her bare toe to the floor. An experimental push with her foot also led to no results. The gurney was locked down on the floor, and there was no way for her to unlock and slide it free.

The position on her elbows was awkward for her muscles that were still recuperating from the stun gun that had been jabbed into her cerebellum. With no other options forthcoming, she lay back against the cold metal to resume staring at the added device to the sprinkler system.

Ashleigh's concept of time had been obliterated by her circumstances as well as her surroundings. With nothing to do, she found that she was having a hard time staying alert. She wasn't sure how long she would have before the next phase of interrogation, or whatever they had planned for her, would take place, so she opted for taking her present situation as a time to rest.

A shrill ringing startled her from her twilight doze. Her body tried to sit upright but was impeded by the wrist cuffs. In seconds, the fire sprinklers in the ceiling went off, drenching the room and her in a fine spray of water.

* * *

Rachelle opened her eyes to an unfamiliar room. Predawn light was streaming through a crack in the blinds from a window on the opposite side of the bed from where she was accustomed. She must have been more tired than she had thought to last the full night in Mike's room.

To commemorate the event, she rolled to her other side and reached for her sleeping companion. She was met by the cold flatness of sheets. Rachelle rose to her elbow and glanced at the empty spot, which given the coolness of the sheets had not seen a warm body in quite some time. Grumbling quietly to herself, she slid out of the empty bed and stumbled to the door.

The one big difference between her quarters and Mike's was the adjoining, private bathroom she enjoyed from her suite. Mike shared a full bathroom with the guest room. It was one of the many reasons she preferred to stay the night in her own room or make her way there long before dawn had a chance of spreading its fingers of light and waking the rest of the house.

Rachelle glanced at the bathroom to find it unoccupied. She was surprised that Mike did not seem to be on the upper level at all. Perhaps he had woken in search of coffee. She finger combed her long locks out of her face and started down the stairs. After a full reconnoiter of the lower level, she had still not found the object of her search.

She made it to the kitchen and quickly set the coffee maker to brew. It had been programmed the night before but not to start at this early hour. As the pot began to gurgle its contents into the carafe, Rachelle became aware of a soft banging noise somewhere in the near vicinity. She tilted her head to listen and followed the sound to the door leading to the garage.

The garage to St. John's house had been modified at some point in time from a large three-car capacity to a two-car capacity. The third stall had been walled off and turned into a workshop, and then changed again into a home gym.

Rachelle opened the door and listened. Sure enough, the thumping sound was louder in the enclosed space and appeared to be coming from the far bay. Using the light spilling from under the doorway leading to the sectioned off portion of the garage, she skirted around St. John's Jeep Wrangler and her baby, a '75 Mustang. She smiled as she ran her hand lovingly down the dark blue paint of the fully restored, Cobra II, briefly stopping to linger on the stark white racing stripes streaking down the hood.

String must have brought her car home after Mike had handled her at the Company. That thought soured her smile, and she continued on her way to investigate the noise. When she arrived at the entry, she turned the knob and cracked open the door. Her eyes fell on Mike who was attacking the hanging bag as if it had done something unforgivable.

She was careful not to startle him as she entered the room. Although given the way he was pummeling the sand from the bag, it would have been difficult to do. She winced as she watched a particularly savage volley of fists quickly jabbing into the leather. The bag had little time to reverse its course as another fist slammed into it, rocking it back into another swing that would be met with another fist.

Despite her caution, her grimace must have been audible because Mike halted his attack, grabbed the bag, and turned his head to look at her. Sweat poured down his face. The hair on the back of his neck curled slightly with the moisture. His face was impossible to read.

"The bag do something to make you this upset?" Rachelle asked, taking a few more steps into the gym. She watched his face intently to try and judge what exactly was going on in his head.

Mike made a small grunt as his reply and turned back to the bag, resuming his attack.

Rachelle stood her ground and watched the fluidity of his movements, the raw power behind each jab, cross and hook. She could see how his muscles contracted with each blow. It was a rippling effect as the fist impacted with the bag: abs, obliques, chest, and shoulders working together to create an explosive assault against the not-so inert, boxing equipment. Her eyes traveled to the apparatus itself. What she saw made her angry.

"What the hell," Rachelle growled, grabbing Mike's arm on a back swing.

His momentum caused his stance to pivot as he released the energy his muscles had compressed not at the punching bag but directly at Rachelle whom he was now facing. Even as the realization dawned, Mike had no way of changing trajectory or even slowing his strike.

Rachelle saw the fist as it came directly at her head. She dodged the blow, swatting his wrist with a hard push to his left, using his unstable equilibrium against him. As Mike took an additional step forward, stabilizing his weight onto his right foot, Rachelle swiveled with him and grabbed the arm that was still extended in a completed punch. She adjusted her grip and twisted his arm, pushing it so that it was rotated behind him. She pushed hard into him, lifting his arm up against his back and securing her stance with her other hand bracing his contorted elbow at the sharp angle.

"Stand down," she ordered, her breath coming in a rough rasp as she breathed through the sudden burst of adrenaline.

Mike willed his body to relax in the uncomfortable position Rachelle had placed him. As soon as he felt her grip slacken slightly, he twisted so that he was once again facing her. He caught her wrists in his own hands and pinned them behind her back so that they were pressed chest-to-chest, face-to face.

"I almost hit you," he growled, his breath hot on her cheeks.

Rachelle squirmed, but Mike held her fast. "Well, I almost shot you in the conference room, so call it even," she hissed back.

Mike immediately released his hold and stepped away from her. "That isn't remotely funny."

"Yeah," Rachelle countered paralleling his movements, "neither is this." She grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand up, pointing at the abraded skin.

Blood was clearly showing through the shoddy taping job he had done on his knuckles. Mike flexed his fingers and pulled his hand out of her grip. "It's nothing," he lied.

"Nothing? You turned your hands to hamburger meat, and you call that nothing?"

Mike remained silent and walked over to a bench to retrieve a towel to dry his face.

"Damn it, Mike, what the hell is wrong with you?"

In less than a second, Mike bridged the gap between them, the space that he had created himself. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her so that they were once again face-to-face. "You. You are what is wrong with me!" His voice was a whisper, but the intensity behind it was as though he were screaming.

"I look at you sleeping beside me, and I see what he did to you. I can't get the images out of my head. I can't forget the things he did to you. I can't stop thinking. All I want to do is stop thinking!" He released her, physically pushing her away from him and buried his hands against his temples, fingers curling into his hair.

Rachelle swallowed hard. She had thought that she had prepared herself for the backlash that was bound to occur after overloading Mike with information about her past. The images that Cat had provided hadn't helped; they had only added fuel to an already out of control fire. Now, she wasn't sure that she could do any real damage control; she could only triage what she saw and hope that it was enough.

"Mike," she began, trying to get him to look at her, but he refused. Gently, she reached out and took one of his damaged hands in both of hers. When he finally met her eyes, she tried again.

"Mike, this is me. This is real. Me, right now, right here." She took his fingers and brought them gently to her mouth, softly caressing the bruised and bloodied flesh against her lips.

Mike reached out his other hand and brushed the hair out of her face. He gently traced the healing cut on her forehead, trailing down to stroke her cheek. She responded by leaning into his palm, her eyes closing. Needing this moment to feel as real as she had promised, he brought his lips down across hers.

The kiss had started gentle, but almost as soon as they had touched, it had become more, almost desperate. Like drowning victims clutching a lifesaver, they poured themselves into each other: pushing, pulling, trying to get closer.

Rachelle's hands found the hem of Mike's soaked tank top. She pushed it up and over his head. He willingly shed the skin, reveling in her hands scraping against his chest down his abs. He was about to follow suit with Rachelle's top, but he stopped immediately at a short, barking cough coming from the doorway. Rachelle and Mike broke away from each other like two teenagers caught by a parent's unexpected arrival.

Feeling her already warm face grow hotter, Rachelle raised her gaze to meet the intruder. "String," she greeted, trying to keep her voice even and failing.

String cocked an eyebrow at Mike and then held up her cell phone to her. "You have a call."

"Thanks," she muttered, feeling the heat on her cheeks rise to molten levels. She took the phone from him. "This is Hawke," she answered and then quickly corrected herself, "Karrison."

She was silent for a moment, listening to the caller on the other end of the line before suddenly shouting, "What? When?"

The tone of Rachelle's voice caused both Mike and String to move closer. Exchanging a look, they watched as she started pacing the floor. Both men knew when she started to do that, it was a sign that things had just gotten worse. The only question was, what the "things" were.

"I'll be there in thirty," Rachelle snapped and terminated the call. She ran a hand through her hair before she looked into the two pair of waiting eyes.

"That was Nex. They found Ashleigh's car early Saturday morning. It was burned, arson. They found a body."

String let out a loud expletive, and Mike moved closer to offer support, but Rachelle waved him off already pacing the floor again. "It was male. But, they don't have any leads as to what happened or where Ashleigh is. I've got to go."

"Woah," Mike called, stepping in front of her, "I'm coming with you."

"No," String spoke, using the same word that Rachelle's mouth was forming. "I'll go."

"Now wait a minute," Rachelle began, but was interrupted again by her brother.

"This is not a topic open for discussion. Get washed up; we leave in five." Not allowing further debate, String left the room.

Rachelle stood in the room with her mouth opened to protest but thought better of it and closed it. She looked back at Mike. He shook his head sympathetically at her.

"Go." He nodded, eyes encouraging her to go after her brother.

Ignoring him, Rachelle walked toward him instead. Moving to her tiptoes, she brushed her lips across his, a much more chaste version of the kiss that had been interrupted.

"I'll keep you posted," she promised and turned to follow String's path from the gym.


End file.
